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     *     *     *     *     *

The thing to expect, in a case like this, where the one was not even a full month wed and the other had affectionate not-prohibitively-closely-related members of the same sex right there in the smial with them, would be that one would be spending the night with his lovely warm bride and the other would be tucked in happily with his cousins.

But this was Mr. Frodo, and Sam knew better than to expect him to act like any other hobbit.  So after supper, when Rosie had retreated into the kitchen with the washing-up, Sam took advantage of one of Merry and Pippin's trips to the pantry to refill everyone's tankards and dropped a quiet word in Frodo's ear.  Somehow he wasn't surprised when Frodo said, "Oh, yes, please!" first, and only after the unthinking acceptance made polite noises about not wanting to take Sam away from Rosie so soon after the wedding.

So he sent Rosie off to bed by herself, when she came to check on the gathering after the dishes were tended to, and was thankful that she let him go for the night with such good grace. (Had Sam been inclined to seek troubles, he might have worried that she was annoyed enough by his little proposal to be glad to have him out of her bed for a night or two.  As things were, he was merely grateful that he wouldn't be finding out her decision just yet.)

Sending Merry and Pippin off for the night took a great deal longer, though eventually even they were content to seek their shared guest bed.  It worried Sam, that neither one seemed to expect Frodo to join them, or even appeared surprised that Frodo and Sam were off to Frodo's room together.  He had a very unpleasant suspicion that Frodo had chosen to sleep alone while at Crickhollow, contrary to all good sense and expectation.

Certainly Frodo acted like a hobbit in need of a good shagging, all hungry kisses and fast-wandering hands.  Sam had barely closed the door behind them before Frodo had him pinned against the wood, kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt all at once.  Which was a nice enough greeting, and by no means unwelcome -- especially after the worrisome listlessness Frodo had shown in bed for far too many months.

Admittedly, it would have been even more welcome had it come while Sam was sharing a bed with Frodo every night, rather than after two weeks of enthusiastic exploration of the differences between a lad and a lass.  Sort of like going on short commons for a while and then being given a feast after you'd finally started getting a proper six meals a day again.  Not that a hobbit ever turns down a meal -- the timing could have been better, was all.

But Sam didn't mean to discourage Frodo from anything that got him back to normal, whenever it might occur. 

And Sam had been worried -- so very worried about Frodo, about the way he'd lost interest in so many things.  He had hoped that being back in the Shire, in Bag End where he belonged, would have a healing effect -- and then he'd hoped that being with his cousins would do it, back where he'd spent his childhood and away from where every room of the smial and every path in the countryside carried memories of Bilbo.  Neither seemed to have worked as well as needful.

So it was good, that Frodo was at least back to himself enough to need love, and -- though Sam knew it was greedy and selfish and unworthy of him to think so -- Sam was rather sneakily glad that Frodo only wanted him in his arms and in his bed.

That wouldn't do at all in the long run.  Rosie had nearly as great a claim on Sam now as Frodo himself had.  If Frodo could be lured to Rosie's bed, things would balance out, the tug-of-war would become a circle.

If.

But time enough for "if" tomorrow -- tonight, Frodo needed out of his clothes and into the bed.

How many times had Sam unbuttoned weskit and shirt to expose a slender moonglow chest?  Surely hundreds, over the years, and not enough times yet to be accustomed to the thin purple line marring one shoulder.  Frodo wriggled out of waistcoat and braces impatiently, but Sam pulled him close before he could quite divest himself of his shirt.

A kiss on the lips, tender on the one side and hungry on the other.  Another under a pale sharp jaw, where the pulse thrummed under his lips.  A strong thumb rubbing the scar, followed by a kiss. (Sam had worried about the mark, about whether to steer well clear of touching it at all, about how much handling the entire shoulder could bear now, until Frodo confessed that it was always cold and that any heat was welcome.  Now Sam paid special attention to the scar, wishing he could rub it away and erase it completely.) Frodo tolerated this for a moment, though he made a grab for Sam's rear and pulled him close enough for an insistent wriggle, silently warning that he wasn't in the mood for slow foreplay tonight.

Reading the signal with the ease of long practice, Sam released the arm around Frodo's waist, allowing him room to finish unbuttoning Sam's shirt.  Sam halted him just long enough to strip Frodo of his own shirt, draping it over a convenient chair.  No time for folding the laundry, with Frodo pulling Sam's braces and shirt off now and tossing them in the vague direction of the chair.  Breeches hit the floor almost simultaneously and were not picked up, as Frodo kicked his aside and made a dive for the bed.

Turning to face Sam just as he followed between the covers, Frodo rolled himself neatly in his lover's arms.

No conversation, then, with long familiary leaving words unnecessary.

I missed you, pressed against Sam's hip, with Sam's agreement hot against his belly.

Come closer, love, arms around Sam and leg curling across his hip.

Yes, touch me there, a sharp inhale and slow exhale.

Rub harder -- harder, a hip movement that took on an insistent rhythm.

Now, pushing Sam onto his back and half crawling atop him, reaching past him to the drawer of the bedside table.

Now, the agreement as Sam rolled Frodo off and took him by the shoulders.

I'm ready, legs hooking over Sam's arms, flexible like no hobbit past the age of thirty had any right to be.

Right there, a cry and an eager arching into that pressing oil-slicked finger.

Hurry up! a little exhale of almost-protest as the finger disappeared while Sam made further use of the scented oil.

"Sam...," the first word spoken by either since they'd entered the room together.

Settling into the rhythm familiar as his quickening heartbeat after so many years, Sam finally realized the source of the nagging oddness that had plagued him through the weeks since his wedding.

He was just so used to seing dark curls spread out over a pillow, rather than honey-blond.

And Rosie had lovely blue eyes, sure enough, but they just weren't that shade of summer sky that seemed to look right through you and down to your soul.

Looked down into your soul and showed the one behind them in return, and there it was, his Frodo, looking back, and it was him, he was there, not off wandering in some dim internal world where Sam couldn't follow

Frodo was here, under Sam, eyes locked with his and hands clasped behind his neck, where he belonged.  Rosie was here -- in Bag End at least, though not here in the bed with them -- but Sam was suddenly sure that she would be.

Everything would be fine, it all would work out, the days were no trouble and the nights they'd just have to work out where all the legs would go.

Everything was going to be fine.

And suddenly there was no way Sam would be able to wait, to last long enough to give Frodo the proper shagging he needed, so he reached down with still-slick fingers and took Frodo in his hand.  Hot and thrumming, and about as familiar to his fingers as his own cock by now, and Frodo closed his eyes after a few strokes and bucked upwards into Sam's hand.

And it was that face, that Sam had to see -- the reason why he always wanted Frodo facing him if they could possibly manage it. (The one that he'd so hated seeing when it was the Ring's doing and not his own -- sheer jealousy had been his strongest armor against the damned thing's blandishments in the dark land.)

Seeing that look on his Frodo's face was enough to spill Sam over the edge this time. 

It's all right, he thought, grabbing a flannel from the nightstand afterwards and getting the both of them tidied up.  As Frodo kissed him drowsily and snuggled into his arms, Everything's going to be fine.

     *     *     *     *     *

Rosie didn't try to discuss the matter with Frodo the next day.  It was obviously Sam's task to put the matter before him, both as the one with the extensive history with Frodo and as the one whose idea it was.  Granted, Sam was likely to twitch and dither and postpone the matter for as long as possible, if his performance with her was any indication.  She didn't want to be left hanging for weeks and months to come, wondering if she hadn't been told anything because Frodo hadn't made up his mind or because Sam still hadn't worked up the nerve.  But the prospect of raising the question with Mr. Frodo herself and finding out Sam hadn't already set the matter before him...  Well.

She was frankly expecting Frodo to pull her aside, wanting to, "ask her about something Sam said to him."  As courteous as he'd always been, and as quiet and diffident as he seemed now, she just couldn't see him agreeing to such an unusual arrangement without sounding her out for himself and no doubt taking a few weeks to mull it over besides.  No matter what Sam muttered about rash Brandybucks and impetuous Tooks, or what the non-Gamgee locals said about mad Bagginses, or even that story Sam told about Mr. Frodo agreeing to walk all the way to Mordor on the spur-of the-moment, like -- Rosie just couldn't see Mr. Frodo as being overquick to make up his mind on something this important.

And she didn't want to rush him -- but she didn't want to spend too long in suspense, either.  So the thing to do seemed to be not giving Sam any time to dither.

She cornered him on the way out the door, after he'd taken Mr. Frodo his afternoon tea in the library, which mean that he was safely occupied for a while and unlikely to overhear a brief exchange in the kitchen.  "Did you ask him?"

"What?"

"Did you ask him what you asked me about yesterday?"

"Well...  No, not yet."  Unable to meet her eyes, he added, "There hasn't been time, what with us getting... caught up last night, and unpacking his things and all."

"You couldn't fit in a few words between rounds?"  She let him see the skeptical look perfected by her mother over years of raising excuse-making offspring and handed down intact as a birthright to the only Cotton daughter.

"Well, it... didn't seem the time."

"Well, find the time, or I'll do it myself!"

He tried to find the most suitable response to that -- judging by the look on his face, "Say what?!" seemed to be running neck and neck with, "Well, you're awfully eager...," though, "Would you, please?" was apparently gaining on the rest of the field.

Not wanting to give him time to call her bluff, she added, "And I'm sure I'd do a horrible job of it, too, and put him off entirely -- but I refuse to spend the next half a year waiting to find out if we're doing this or not because you couldn't bring yourself to say a word to him in all that time!  It'll be a long enough wait for him to make up his mind one way or the other."

With that being said, she made her escape from the kitchen without leaving Sam time to reply.  If she knew her husband like she thought she did, that should have lit a tidy little fire under his toes to get him moving...

     *     *     *     *     *

"Sam, is there anything wrong?  You act like you have something on your mind."

Sam paused in the middle of refilling one of the lamps in Frodo's study.  "No, not... not really."

Frodo contemplated his dearest friend's inability to lie with ease or plausibility, as he let the matter go without further comment.

For now.

Sam sometimes found himself caught in a struggle between his own inherent honesty and the ideas about "not gettin' above his station" that his Gaffer had attempted to pound into him.  If it were a matter he felt strongly enough about, he worked his way up to saying it eventually.

Especially if Frodo kept encouraging him to speak up whenever he looked troubled or conflicted.

It was only a matter of time and opportunity.

     *     *     *     *     *

Sam wasn't sure how to interpret Rosie's impatience.

She certainly hadn't been in this much of a hurry when he'd been courting her.  Charming enough, and all smiles whenever he'd glanced her way, and quick enough to respond when he did finally speak up -- but she'd given him all of the time he'd needed to get to the point.  Never shown a sign of anything so unladylike as wanting him to get to the blasted point.

Well, no.  That wasn't quite true.  In point of fact, she'd told him he'd "wasted enough time already" when it came to setting their wedding date.

He supposed that the year he and the others had been gone -- without even leaving a word of explanation behind! -- was enough to use up the last of any lass' patience.

And after she thought they'd gotten everything settled and mapped out good and proper, here he went and dropped an idea like this on her and altered the entire landscape.  So in all fairness, he could see why she wanted the matter settled one way or the other.

But what worried him was the way she seemed to expect Frodo to need "time to think about it."  Frodo didn't spend weeks pondering the situation when he had a decision to make -- it might take him a while to work up to doing what he'd been planning, but his mind would have been made up long before.

So Sam wouldn't have a lot of time to coax and convince -- he'd have to put the idea to Frodo exactly right.  And he'd have to pick his moment, too, and catch him in the right mood.

And now it looked like he'd have to speak his piece before Rosie jumped in first.

Sam was very unhappily imagining Rosie coming up to Frodo bold as brass and saying, "My Sam told me he wants to share me with you, if you're interested.  So how about it?"  He wasn't too sure how Frodo would react -- long-time friends and lovers or no, Frodo had surprised him on many an occasion -- but he couldn't quite see that scene ending happily.

Somehow, it wasn't helping him think of a good way to put the offer to Frodo, either.

     *     *     *     *     *

Rosie supposed it was like courting, after a fashion.  So, as the lass, it was her job to be vivacious and friendly and let the lad in question know she'd noticed when he did something wonderful and hope that eventually he'd get it through his thick Gamgee Baggins skull that she might actually want to go walking along the edges of Bywater Pond with him of an evening.

There had been times she'd wanted to shake Sam, or just come right out and be the one to do the asking herself.

But Lily Cotton hadn't raised her only daughter to go putting herself forward like that.

It wasn't her place to be the one doing the asking.

Doubly so since she was a married hobbit now, and there shouldn't be any asking to be done except of her husband.  So under the circumstances, she was just as glad Sam would be the one doing the asking again.  She could handle her half of the courting (or should it be, her third of the courting, under the circumstances?) just fine.  And with her not letting Sam put off his part of things for a few years like he'd done with her, that just left things up to Mr. Frodo.

She could only hope he wasn't quite so bad as Sam was at making up his mind -- though the way he'd remained appalling single after all these years didn't bode well for his ability to take a lass' hints.

Then again, he was a well-practiced flirt, she was delighted to discover at dinner.  So maybe he wasn't quite so clueless after all.

     *     *     *     *     *

Married life certainly seemed to agree with Rosie, at least.  Frodo wasn't entirely sure whether Sam had found cause for regret so soon after the vows had been spoken, or had merely been reacting badly to being separated from Frodo -- he would reserve judgement until he'd settled into the new routine at Bag End.

Frodo wanted Sam to be happy with Rosie. 

He could not deny that there was a certain, rather nastily Gollum-like voice in the back of his head whispering that it served Sam right not to be satisfied with the wife he had abandoned Frodo for -- and he bloody well should feel guilty about casting his poor master aside, too!  But the better (and, he hoped, stronger) part of his nature wanted Sam to have all the joy in the world. 

Even if Frodo couldn't share it with him.

And if there was one person who seemed to share his conviction that Sam deserved good things, it was Rosie.  Frodo counted this as a strong point in her favor, as was her apparent determination to make their living arrangement a harmonious one.  How else to explain the way she asked him about the book he was working on?

Not because she was interested in what he was writing, surely.  She had made her position abundantly clear when he had been living with her family -- Bagginses (and certainly Tooks and Brandybucks as well) might concern themselves with the doings of elves and kings and heroes outside the Shire if they wished to do so.  Such tales as they brought back sometimes made welcome entertainment on a long winter's eve -- but the events retold had no relevance to the daily lives of the folk of the Shire.

In other words, she thought his book was a waste of time.

Not that she would ever say so to his face -- it wasn't her place to tell the current master at Bag End how to spend his time, and he certainly had the financial means to follow whatever idle pursuits struck his fancy.  But none of his careful translations, nothing of the tale of the Ring that he was currently struggling to capture on paper, not a bit of what he wrote had the slightest value in the real world for her.

No more value than what he and Sam had done while they'd been gone, as far as she was concerned.

(Which was another of the things he didn't like to think about, so he wouldn't.  And Rosie was making it easier to ignore by pretending she didn't feel that way, so he'd play along.)

Had it been a single lass pretending to be interested, he would have assumed that she had an eye to becoming the next Mrs. Baggins.  But since Rosie was safely married -- and already the mistress of Bag End, in fact if not in name -- that couldn't be her reason.  He could only assume she was making an extra effort to be kind to her new master, no doubt to please Sam and foster domestic tranquility among the three of them.

Frodo knew how badly Sam wanted his new wife and old friend to like one another.  And he was willing to make an extra effort to get along with her, the more so since they'd be seeing a great deal of one another, sharing a smial as they were.  Since she was clearly interested in the same thing he was, this shouldn't be a problem.

So he would be friendly right back.

"Its a very dry, scholarly tome," he warned her playfully.  "I'm writing an account for history.  It's not very entertaining or colorful a read -- no doubt you got a much better version from Sam."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sam interrupted cheerfully.  "I'm sure I got it all jumbled, throught not keeping track of what all happened when.  You've been the one asking everyone about it and getting it all straight in your mind -- I'm sure you tell it much clearer than I ever could."

Frodo shook his head.  "You're a much better storyteller than you realize, Sam.  I don't think I understood how hard it is to bring life to a story until I tried it for myself.  I don't think anyone but a historian could enjoy reading what I'm writing.  And you've certainly got more interesting things to do with your time," he added for Rosie's benefit, with a little twinkle of good humor.  He appreciated the show of interest, but he wouldn't punish her for the polite lie by taking her offer seriously.

She surprised him with her persistence.  "Maybe you should let someone else read it and judge for themself how boring or lively it may be."

"Perhaps I should.  Someone with a great deal of time on their hands who doesn't bore easily."

"Surely it can't be so bad a story as that, if you're writing it down for history?  Histories are exciting, aren't they?"

"No, tales are exciting.  Histories are likly to be a dry recitation of facts set down by some pale chronicler who doesn't spend enough time outside and had to ask everyone else the story because he didn't see any of it for himself."

"Well, I'll admit you could do with a bit of the sun on your face.  But you did see what happened -- Sam said you did most of it."

"I did some of it, but other did as much and more.  Sam, I should point out, saw at least as much as I did and was a damn sight more useful in the long run.  By all rights it should be his story."

"That's not true, Mr. Frodo, and you know it.  You had the worst of it -- I just followed where you led, and did for you where I could."

"And watched my back the whole way, and carried me when I couldn't go on, and got me moving again when I was ready to give up."

Rosie shifted in her seat a little, which reminded Frodo that she probably hadn't intended the conversation to take such a serious turn.  Deliberately lightening the mood, he added, "But Sam wouldn't trust anyone else to tend to the gardens here, and since I'm the one who spends all his time mucking about with quill and ink and dusty old books, I'm the one who got stuck with writing the history.  I told you, it's not very good -- if you're looking for something to read, I've got some lovely tales you would enjoy.  Or there's always poetry -- that's Sam's favorite."  Sam's ears turned a bit red, as Rosie gave him a surprised glance, which was interesting -- had he never mentioned that to her?  "Not always originally written in Elvish, and some that were have been translated into the Common Speech.  Ask me after dinner if you want and I'll read some to you.  Or Sam could always recite something," he added just to see if he could make Sam blush again. (He could.)

Evidently Rosie liked teasing Sam as well, since she said, "So that's why you used to spend so much time here as a lad, Sam -- you had to get the gardens tended and learn your lessons, too!"  Turning to Frodo, she added, "You must be a very good teacher."

"He is that --"

Frodo cut him off.  "Bilbo was a very good teacher -- he taught us both.  Sam is a very good learner, too -- I just had more time to spend practicing."

"Well, there's time and then there's inclination, if you follow me --"

"Sam, if you say something about keeping your place or quote your Gaffer, I'm throwing my potatoes at you.  The fact that you just used 'inclination' in a sentence proves that you're not as ill-educated as you seem compelled to pretend to be."

Rosie was nodding firmly, which was heartening.  With the pair of them working in tandem, they might be able to stamp out the worst of the Gaffer's attempts at class indoctrination within ten years or so.

If Frodo had ten years to spend on the project, that was.

He feared Rosie would find herself finishing the task alone.

And he was turning too serious again -- that wasn't how he wanted tonight to go.  Tonight should be about settling in and everyone getting comfortable with each other -- as a household of three, rather than as Sam's future missus and Sam's master and best friend, or as the daughter of the Cotton household and two guests of her family.  Their real first night in their home together, now that Merry and Pippin were back to Tuckborough.

Filling in the gap in the conversation with a change of subject, "So, how are you finding it living in this overgrown smial?  Not too gloomy and empty, I hope?"

"Oh, no, it's lovely!  Could do with filling up, though -- all those rooms and only the three of us to fill them right now."

"Well, that's for the pair of you to tend to.  Bilbo's father dug for a large family but only had the one son, and Bilbo and I never married.  Looks like the Gamgees will have to keep all those bedrooms from going to waste."

She bit her lip, visibly hesitant, before saying, "Sir, if you don't mind my asking, how is it you never married?"

It was an overly personal question and she knew it, too, or she wouldn't have stuck in the "sir."  He looked to Sam, but to Frodo's surprise no protest at the impertinent question was forthcoming.  Sam apparently wanted him to answer the question.

Frodo sighed, wondering if he was meant to be be reassuring her that she wouldn't find her position in the household abruptly supplanted by a new Mrs. Baggins.  "When I was younger, there were a few lasses I might have liked to... come to an understanding with, but it never seemed to work out.  And then I just -- gave up looking."

"And now?"

He sighed, letting the weariness and pain he'd been so carefully keeping from his manuscript seep into his expression for just a moment.  "And now I'm too old and tired for anyone to have me."

"You don't look your age -- and I don't believe you couldn't still get a lass' attention."

Frodo gave Sam another look -- almost pleading this time.  Why aren't you putting a stop to this?  The part about age and exhaustion he didn't even want to think about explaining honestly in front of Sam.  "There have been a few ladies dropping hints -- but I try to ignore them as politely as possible."

"Why?"

"Because they're not hinting that they're interested in me, so much as interested in becoming the mistress of Bag End -- and willing to put up with marrying me as the price to pay."  She winced, and he tried to lighten the mood again.  "Still, they're often better than some of the lasses my aunts tried to shackle me to when I was younger.  They acted as thought I were an unruly pony that needed to be broken to harness."

Evidently he'd succeeded better than he'd hoped, judging by her snort of startled laughter.

Or maybe not -- she seemed embarassed at her reaction, quickly stifling her giggles as thought caught joking at a funeral.

Ah, well.  He'd tried, but evidently tonight was not to be a convivial evening.  A pity.

"I'm sorry, the conversation has been a bit too depressing for the dinner table this evening.  May I suggest a change of subject -- to anything that isn't about me?"  He kept his tone bantering, while shooting Sam a Look that said, It's as well you'll be in another bed than mine tonight, laddie.  Otherwise you'd be sleeping all by your lonesome...

     *     *     *     *     *

Sam thought the evening had gone reasonably well, considering.  Rose had been attentive towards, interested in, or concerned about Frodo, as appropriate.  A fine bit of groundwork for the uphill task of convincing Mr. Frodo that she'd be willing.

Which was just as well, since after he'd bathed and joined Rosie in their bedroom she greeted him with the blunt, "Sam, I want you to go talk to him."

"Now?  Tonight?"

"Yes!  He's lonely and unhappy and he's going to probably be thinking about how he'll never have a wife of his own half the night -- go talk to him!"

He could see the sense of it when she put it like that -- but, "I'm still not quite sure in my own mind how to put it to him."

"Well, I'm sure if you aren't.  And I'll do it if you won't."

By the set of her jaw, this time she meant it, too.

"Right.  Right, then.  I'll go.  You... you stay here and get ready for bed.  I -- should be back in here, tonight.  Maybe."

"Go.  I'll wait up for you."

Well, and wasn't that promising -- having to discuss what he'd said and done immediately after, and not doubt having her telling him how he should have done things.  Perfect way to end the evening.

Sam sighed dismally and set off down the hall.

One thing she was right about, at least -- Frodo was still up, the lamplight glinting around the edges of the door.  Though when his knock remained unanswered for a long minute, he thought Frodo might have fallen asleep with the light still lit -- Do the shadows trouble him so much, still? -- but then he heard a sharp, "You might as well come in then, Sam."

Oh, and that was just the last thing he needed -- Mr. Frodo in a mood right when he had to say this.

Well, no.  The last thing he needed was to go back to his room, tell Rosie that Frodo was too cranky to listen, and have her come back here to talk to Frodo herself.

"A pickle and no mistake," he murmured, cautiously opening the door.

"What was that all about?"  Frodo demanded.  In a mood, to be sure, face set and eyes snapping.  "And why didn't you step in and put a stop to it?"

Sam couldn't always follow Frodo's thought processes.  He had accepted that years ago.  It didn't keep him from occasionally feeling left behind.  And having been heavily pondering the proper phrasing of a most improper suggestion on the walk down the hall, Sam was especially unready for the argument that had apparently been waiting for him.

Not giving Sam sufficient time to mentally backtrack through the evening until he had an idea of what had set him off, Frodo went on.  "Were you the one filling her head with all that marriage talk?  Or could you just not convince her that she doesn't have to worry about me bringing home a wife to unsettle the household after she's gotten it all arranged to her liking?"

Sam frowned thoughtfully.  There was a way from Frodo's complaint to his proposal, if he could just find it.  The trick would be in not straying from the path and finding himself in a mire up to his neck -- or over his head.  "I told her you weren't planning on wedding.  I couldn't tell her why, and she took it on herself to ask."

"Well, it wasn't her -- her business to ask!"

Sam had a suspicion that Frodo had been about to say it "wasn't her place to ask," but had veered off at the last moment.  "Place" was a very touchy subject where the two of them were concerned.  "WIth all respect, sir --" that word was a warning sign, when the two of them were alone together and Sam wasn't merely keeping up appearances for the sake of the audience "-- I can't be everywhere at once.  You and Rosie are going to be looking after each other when I'm away.  It was a bit pert of her to ask it, but it'll make things easier all round if you two are easy with each other.  I'm sorry she got above her place, there, but that's the way I see it."

Frodo sighed.  "And I've been arguing with you about your 'proper place' for too long now to say anything about your wife keeping to her proper station, is that it?"  He seemed rueful now, rather than angry, which was a step in the right direction at least.

"Yes, sir."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, "And you're 'sir'-ing me now, so I know I must have been stepping on your toes."

"Maybe just a little.  Not that I can't see why you... weren't any too keen on being asked about it."  Accepting Frodo's silent invitation, Sam sat next to him.  "She was just -- worried about you," he added more quietly.  "We both are."

"Are you, now?"  Sam preferred Frodo in a genuine temper to this closed wariness.  No expression, giving nothing away.

"She sent me down here to talk to you just now.  Seemed to think you'd be in here brooding half the night if I didn't.  Threatened to do it herself if I wouldn't."  He stopped abruptly, realizing he had gotten a bit too close to dangerous ground too fast.

"Really?"  A mild tone -- a very deceptively mild tone, Sam suspected.  "Why wouldn't you have wanted to come in here?  And what would she have said if you hadn't?"

"Well..."  Sam looked away, feeling his ears growing hot.

"Don't tell me she's taken it on herself to do a bit of matchmaking on my behalf?"  The tone wasn't pleased.

"No, not exactly..."

"Or is she just on the look out for a lad to help out around the place a bit -- and to take care of my bed so you can be taking care of hers?"  Resigned, now.

"No.  That, she wasn't doing."

"Well, what is she doing, then?"  A bit curious, but sounding like he didn't expect to like the answer, whatever it was.

"First off, it wasn't her idea, it was mine."

"...Which was?"  There should be more curiosity now, and impatience at the way Sam was dragging things out.  Not this grey waiting, this listless acceptance.  Frodo looked numb, as though expecting bad news atop too many piled woes for one more to matter much.

And it hurt, to see such a weary expression on his Mr. Frodo, who had always wanted to know, and expected to learn good tidings.

Reaching a hand out to cup around Frodo's cheek, Sam whispered, "It's not right, you being alone when I'm with Rosie, and it's not right leaving her when I'm with you either.  And I can't even be here all the time."

Frodo closed his eyes, leaning his jaw into Sam's hand for a moment.  "I know, Sam.  You were never meant to be pulled in two like this."

"Which is why I asked Rosie, and she agreed -- she's willing to share, if you are."

"Share?  Isn't that what we've just decided you can't do?"  Impatient now, Frodo pulled away from Sam's hand, rising to his feet.  A few restless quick steps towards the chair and he stopped, no destination in mind but sufficient distance reached.

Sam wished Frodo would turn back around so he could see his face.  But the set of his shoulders, and the way he folded his arms and lowered his head, curling in around himself, conveyed unhappiness as clearly as his expression ever could have.

"I don't mean, sharing me between the two of you.  Or not just that, anyway.  I mean, you and Rosie too -- all three of us together."

A pause, as Frodo didn't move.  But then his head lifted, his shoulders straightened, and he turned.  "What?"

Well, it wasn't acceptance.  But Sam was willing to be optimistic.  Frodo looked startled, and as though he were questioning his ears -- or whether Sam had simply gone mad under the combined strain of tending an ailing former Ringbearer, healing the wounded Shire, and keeping a lusty new wife happy.

Startled, confused -- and inquisitive.

It was that last that gave Sam the most hope.

Not just because he looked alive again.

Not just because, if he was still able to be curious, that meant the old Frodo was still in there somewhere, and maybe just needed a bit of coaxing to come out.

But because Sam thought curiosity would get Frodo into a strange bed a lot quicker than desire, and twice as sure.

     *     *     *     *     *

TO BE CONTINUED


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