Title: True Love, part two, Sparking
Author: Keye Goodenough
Email:
Characters: Frodo and Sam
Rating: R
Genre: Romance, Angst
Summary: Frodo and Sam suffer from miscommunication.
Archiving: Sure

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all who inhabit it belong to the master, J.R.R.
Tolkien. May he forgive us.

Story notes: Summer of 1403. Frodo is two years of-age at thirty-five. Sam
is twenty-three.

This story follows True Love, part one, Awakening

Sparking by Keye Goodenough

"Samwise... time to be up!"

Sam jolted, half wakened by a pounding on the door, then brought to full
alert by the Gaffer's gruff voice on the other side of it. He caught a
breath. "I'm up, sir!" He was, at that. He held the breath he'd caught
until the Gaffer had gone on and there was no slightest sound from out in the
hallway, then he threw an arm across his mouth and slid his hand under the
sheets. A pretty dream lingered on his senses, and he let himself drift back
into it, a little, let himself imagine pale soft bare skin against his own,
his fingers buried in silky dark hair, warm breath, sweet lips... but he
couldn't linger over it too much, just did what had to be done, and it did
have to be done or he'd have a rough morning of it for sure. He caught it in
his hand as much as he could, with every good intention of not leaving any
evidence, but the last of it shuddered through him and he clutched his pillow
close and just lay there smiling into the darkness, imagining Frodo warm in
his arms, pleasured and happy.

"Samwise!"

Sam nearly fell out of bed making sure his feet were on the floor before he
said it again. "I'm up, sir!" A faintest glimmer of lamplight slipped in
around the door, and he didn't bother with lighting a candle, just stumbled
his way across the cold floor in the dark to get washed, his face and hands,
then the rest, still imagining, Frodo smiling for him, wanting him too. No
doubting it, he was head over heels in love, and there wasn't a thing that
could bring him down from it. Having the Gaffer grumping at him first thing
in the morning sure couldn't, it being a regular thing.

Dressed and together, he left his room and walked down the dimly lit hallway
out into the kitchen, smiling a big smile and humming a cheery tune to
himself. Daisy and Goldy and May were all there bustling about getting the
day started, and Daisy looked up at him with a face on.

"It's too early, Sam."

Sam laughed, and quick pecked her a kiss on the cheek before she could duck
away, then turned and caught Goldy and May smiling back and forth at each
other, like they thought they knew something. He went on smiling, not much
caring if they did, and settled at the table to have the breakfast Daisy set
before him. The window shutters were open to let in the warmth of a balmy
mid summer night past, and a faint shimmer of beginning dawn, and he couldn't
help thinking what a pleasure it would be to sit up on top of the hill with
Frodo and watch the sun rise. Regretfully, he knew it wasn't a likely thing
to happen, with Frodo always up half the night at his work and never awake
before the sun. Of course that started him thinking about Frodo asleep, and
what a sight that must be. And the sooner he got himself out and up to Bag
End, the closer he'd be to that, whether he could see it or not. He finished
his oatmeal, and gulped down the last of his tea, was pushing himself up from
the table when the Gaffer came in from outside and gave him a looking at.

"Suppose you'll be up at Bag End all day again."

Sam sure hoped so. "I expect, sir. I've been helping Mister Frodo inside...
like I said... besides the gardens." The Gaffer frowned at him.

"You think listening to you try to read is a help to Mister Baggins, do you?"

Sam dropped his eyes to the floor before his feet. "He asked me to, sir."
The Gaffer mumbled under his breath, and went and sat down at the table.

"Just see you mind your place, Samwise."

Sam caught a kindly smile from Marigold. Daisy set a cup of tea on the table
for the Gaffer, who gave him a last glance.

"Well, go on then."

Sam didn't waste any more time about it. Goldy brought him his lunch, and a
fresh loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth, for Mister Frodo's breakfast she
said, and he headed off up to Bag End at a sprightly pace.

Things had changed since That Day, almost two weeks past it was, when he'd
found out what was inside him for Frodo. Lying in bed wide awake that night
he'd set himself goals, to take care of Frodo in the best way he could, and
Frodo was letting him do it, for the most part. It wasn't easy sometimes,
having to hide things he couldn't help feeling when they were together, but
they were together more and more, and that was all he wanted for himself.
When Frodo got tired of him hanging about, Frodo let him know it, and sent
him home, but most of the time Frodo seemed just as pleased to be with him.

Dawn was breaking, a rosy glow over the gardens, colors beginning to pop. He
let himself quietly in the back door, as he had permission now to do when he
got there in the morning, to light the fires, and tidy up as he could, and
wait on Frodo to wake for breakfast. He made his way silently down the hall,
creeping past Frodo's bedroom. The door was closed, but he wouldn't have
looked if it hadn't been, so he told himself. What he thought and dreamed of
couldn't be helped and caused no harm. What he did was another matter.

Frodo woke from a fitful restless sleep, tangled in the bedcovers and acutely
aroused. He kicked at the blankets to half free himself, then rolled to his
stomach with a pathetic groan and buried his face in his pillow, trying to
drive it away with the most unpleasant thoughts he could conjure up. It
didn't work. In the end all he could think about was Sam. It was too hot.
He rolled back over and curled on his side, dragging the covers down from his
face. Early morning light streamed in the open window. Sam would be there,
in the kitchen making breakfast for him. He hadn't meant for that to happen,
hadn't meant for any of it to happen, but it grew harder and harder to
resist. Sam had taken over doing for him those things he should have been
doing for himself. Sam was always nearby, always too available. And Lady
help him, he couldn't help himself. Since that day, his already shaky self
esteem had steadily dwindled, and if it kept up where would that leave him?
With nothing, since he couldn't have Sam. That, at last, was enough to
dampen arousal, and he finally managed to force himself from his bed.

It was how he started most mornings since that day, with longing, and self
reproach, and anticipation, that too. Sam would be in the kitchen, waiting
to shower him with caring attention. He dragged his rumpled nightshirt off
and quickly dressed, took Uncle Bilbo's ring from the night table drawer to
slip into his pocket, and absently clipped its chain to his belt, wondering
what Bilbo would say about all of it. "He would tell you to put your head on
straight and stop thinking nonsense." He didn't know that really. Uncle
Bilbo had never talked to him about such things, because he'd never asked,
knowing even then he wasn't normal. With maturity, he'd come to believe
Bilbo might have understood quite well, but it was too late now. Uncle Bilbo
was gone.

Drawn to the window by a titter of birdsong, he leaned there on the sill
breathing deep, being calm and focusing his thoughts, preparing himself to
deal with the day, preparing himself to deal with Sam. Before he reached the
kitchen he could hear Sam cheerfully humming to himself, and found him there
in the firelight, exuding gladness, happily washing up the pots Frodo had
insisted they leave the night before. He turned such a smile on Frodo it lit
up his heart, and left him feeling weak in the knees.

"Morning, Mister Frodo... you're up early, sir."

Frodo couldn't meet that with anything but a smile in return. "It looked
like another beautiful day dawning. I didn't want to waste it." In fact,
he'd been unable to even think about working the night before, after the
evening they'd spent reading poetry to each other, and he'd pretty quickly
given it up and gone to bed after Sam went home. He pushed himself on,
around the table to pick up a towel, but Sam took it from him before he could
make use of it.

"There's no need for you to be doing that, sir. You just settle in, and I'll
pour you a cup of tea and fix your breakfast."

Frodo did as he was told and sat down at the table, and Sam brought him tea
and asked him what he'd like. He couldn't quite make himself think about it,
and just said anything would be fine. "You can surprise me."

Sam was more than pleased to do so, and went all out, Goldy's fresh baked
bread with butter and jam to start on, while he set about frying bacon, and
eggs, and taters with onions on the side, even came up with a slab of
leftover peach cobbler from the pantry, which was looking a mite bare again
since he'd been making good use of it.

Frodo was more dazed than surprised. "Sam... I can't eat all this... " He
couldn't have if he was famished, and truthfully he didn't feel like eating
at all. "You'll have to help."

Sam didn't attempt to argue with him, just brought another plate and at least
made a show of it. "There's not much of anything for your supper tonight,
sir, so I'm thinking I could make a trip down to the market this morn."

Frodo set his fork down on his still half full plate, and didn't pick it up
again. "No, Sam. I'll do it." He hadn't been down the hill to town for
longer than he could remember, had hardly been out of Bag End for weeks,
hadn't needed to with Sam taking care of everything. "I might go to Bywater
actually... to the booksellers." He'd had a letter from them saying they had
something he might be interested in, and his favorite ink was running low,
and he just plain needed to get out.

Sam held a breath as he asked, suggested, "I could go with you, Mister Frodo,
to help carry things."

Frodo had expected the offer, and couldn't think for a moment that he
wouldn't enjoy Sam's company on the walk, but it seemed like he'd been trying
to make a point, that he could get by for a few hours on his own, whether he
wanted to or not. "You must have better things to do, Sam."

Sam gave him a big smile, but didn't say it, that he couldn't think of a
better thing to do that had any possibility of happening. "There'll be
plenty of time for the garden come afternoon, sir. I'm glad to go along and
help."

Clearly, it was what he wanted, and Frodo couldn't bring himself to say no,
but Sam didn't wait for him to say yes.

"If we'll be going to Bywater, sir, we could stop at Bumble's for some of
those fresh sausages they make with sage and juniper, none better you'll find
without taking a hike out to Needlehole, and I heard the widow Muffet has got
a bumper crop of currants, so I could take a sack of them beets I just pulled
and maybe make a good trade, keeping the best for yourself of course, sir....
Mister Frodo... aren't you going to have the rest of your breakfast?"

Frodo looked down at his plate, and back up again, at Sam's expression of
heartfelt concern. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Sam's feelings, but
he couldn't do it. "It's very good, Sam, as always... but I'm just not
hungry this morning."

Nor most mornings, it would seem. Sam pushed himself up from the table and
went about gathering the dishes. "Well, a good walk ought to cure that right
nice, sir." He'd find something enticing at the market, then fix up a proper
luncheon when they got back. "I'll just quick do the washing first."

Frodo got himself up and made an effort to help, but Sam put him off.

"There's no need, Mister Frodo. I'll have this done in no time. You go
ahead and get together what you'll want to take."

Truthfully, there wasn't any need. Sam wanted to do it himself, and whatever
made Sam happy, made Frodo happy, to a point. He didn't fight it at any
rate, there were enough harder battles to wage, every day, every moment he
was near Sam. He allowed himself a last lingering glance at Sam bustling
about with a smile on his face, then headed for the study.

Sam had Frodo's unwanted breakfast himself rather than throw it out, and had
the cleaning up done in a wink, then he went to the cold cellar to pick out
a sack of beets to take, and added a couple of nice apples as well, so he'd
have something to offer if Frodo got to looking like he wished he'd eaten his
breakfast. He banked the hearthfire on the way back through, and found Frodo
in the front hall, emptying out his walking pack, meaning to purchase some
new books no doubt. Nothing better than that to brighten Frodo's spirits.
Sam gave him a happy smile. "I'll carry that for you, sir."

Frodo accepted the smile, gladly, but enough was enough. "I can carry it
myself, Sam."

Sam thought he saw impatience in Frodo's look and didn't offer again, not
then, later when Frodo had packed it full and was looking at carrying it back
up the hill, maybe, though he'd not like to see that look again. Frodo
turned away from him with a kind of sigh, then turned back again and gave him
a smile, one of the sort that made him feel all warm and fluttery inside.

"Come on, Sam. I need some fresh air."

Sam smiled at him back. "Aye, Mister Frodo."

They stepped out into the warm breezy morning, and headed down around the
lane at a brisk walk. With the sun well risen over the eastern hills, the
sky was a sweeping expanse of cloudless blue. Frodo took in a deep breath,
shading his eyes to gaze out over the valley. Sam said something about it
shaping up to be a hot one, with a suggestion perhaps that he might be
overdressed for it. Frodo had to twist around and look over his shoulder.
"Sam... I can't see you back there... and I can't half hear you either."

Sam gave in to what seemed necessary and moved up alongside Frodo, but not
too close, trying to keep to his place as he'd been told to time and again.
Frodo might not care for such niceties when they were alone up at Bag End,
but out in public was a different thing. "I just said I thought you might
get a bit warm, sir."

Frodo told Sam he was fine, but in fact it was less breezy down from the
hill, and Sam was likely to be proved right by the time they'd been all the
way to Bywater and back. There were folk about as they passed the mill
coming into Hobbiton, and he displayed his politest demeanor, smiling at
anyone who chanced to look his way. They smiled back, most of them, some
even greeted him. 'Good morning, Mister Baggins.' 'How do you do, Mister
Baggins.' Always Mister Baggins. Never Frodo, or even Mister Frodo, though
he'd known them all long enough. Sam had fallen back to walk behind him
again, and as always when he ventured into town he felt more than a little
bit alone against the world.

Sam watched and listened, and caught the tail end here and there of what
Frodo only imagined, since they were tactful enough to at least do it behind
his back, looks and whispers passing to and fro. Sam put on a look of his
own for any of them who'd take it, but no one paid him much heed. Frodo led
on across the bridge, and he followed along, through the market street bustle
and out of town again on Bywater Road at last, where he rather defiantly
trotted up to walk beside Frodo again. "What a crowd, Mister Frodo. You
ought to let me take care of the shopping when we come back through. You'll
be wanting to get back to Bag End by then I expect."

Frodo glanced Sam a look but kept on walking and said nothing. It was
quieter there with less traffic on the road, a soothing sound of the Water
slipping by through the trees northward, but the sun had begun to beat down.
As soon as they'd come under the shade of the great old chestnuts that lined
the rest of the way, he stopped to take off his weskit and stuff it into his
pack.

"It'll wrinkle in there, sir. Let me carry it for you."

Frodo took in a slow deep breath, and let it go. It was absurd the things he
allowed under his skin. He wiped his sweating brow on the sleeve of his
shirt, and fumbled open his top few buttons, then he took up his pack again,
with a smile for Sam that he hoped was less tense. "I brought it, Sam. I'll
carry it. And we'll do the shopping together, as planned." Sam just stood
there looking at him, with an expression on his face Frodo had never seen
there before, a look that squeezed his already bruised heart.

Sam tore his eyes from Frodo's, and forced himself back to walking, as Frodo
did, staring straight ahead of him.

"Sam... are you angry?"

Sam unclenched his teeth. catching a startled breath. "Not at you, Mister
Frodo, not ever!"

Frodo uneasily glanced aside at him. "At who then?"

Sam couldn't not say. "At those as have no sense, is all!" He should have
stopped there, but he didn't. "If I ever come to know someone's said
something hurtful toward you, sir... I don't like to think what I'd have to
do."

Frodo felt a chill up the back of his neck, and a thoroughly contradicting
warmth elsewhere, all at once. The thought of Sam out there defending his
good name touched him deeply, but he couldn't possibly accept such a thing.
"You told me I shouldn't listen to them, Sam... and neither should you."

Sam didn't quite remember saying that, and wasn't sure it was the right thing
to have said if he had. "There's folks who'll believe everthing they hear,
whether it's the truth or nay... and they'll turn right round and say it on."

Frodo actually found a smile. "It doesn't matter what those people think,
Sam. And just so you know, it won't be any different in Bywater." But in
Bywater he had a refuge, and he headed them straight for it. The sign hung
over the shop read Tobias Puddleby, Stationer, and both Puddlebys were in,
Tobias senior and Tobias junior, as well as a couple of Puddleby daughters,
standing watch over the storefront with its shelves of parchments and
envelopes, sealing wax and inkpots. Frodo greeted the youngers by first
name, as Bilbo always had, and he graciously thanked the elder Tobias for
writing him. Of course, even the elder Tobias Puddleby called him Mister
Baggins, but out of respect, for Uncle Bilbo if not himself.

"Well, young Mister Baggins, I don't suppose you've had any word from your
dear uncle, sir?"

Frodo answered that with reasonable equanimity. "Not yet, I'm afraid, but of
course I'll let you know when I do. Uncle Bilbo was very fond of Puddleby's,
as am I... and I very much look forward to seeing this something special you
mentioned." The elder Tobias smiled enthusiastically, and swept a gesture
toward the back room.

"I do think you're going to like this, Mister Baggins."

Sam stood rooted at the center of the floor until Frodo disappeared into the
back, then he quickly found the wherewithal to follow, into a windowless but
brightly lit chamber that smelled faintly of must and dust, with shelves of
books lining the walls, and a table spread over with dark green velvet cloth
and set all around with candles. The shopkeeper brought out a large and
heavy looking book to lay on the table, and Frodo settled into a chair there
to look at it, with the candlelight flickering in his wide blue eyes and a
little smile just turning up the corners of his mouth. Sam stood there
entranced.

It was beautiful, a volume of tales and poems from the days of the early
kings of Gondor, gloriously illustrated, and bound in Minas Tirith said the
elder Puddleby. Frodo asked him, "Do you know how it came here?"

"Well, sir, as you know these things often leave their history behind, and
all I can say for certain is that my buyer in Bree got it from a pair of
gentlemen travelling The Greenway... but it's a lovely tome as I'm sure you
can see, and very well kept."

Frodo slowly turned the pages, taking it in, the fine parchment under his
fingertips and the perfect flowing script, the lavish drawings washed in
delicate colour, the binding tight and masterfully done. It was going to
cost him a small fortune, but he had to have it.

"There's another little something here I'll include in the price, Mister
Baggins, knowing how keen you are on elvish writings."

Frodo looked up, as Puddleby set down a small battered book, not too close to
the other, like he thought its decrepitude might be catching.

"I can't tell you much about it, sir, except that it surely wasn't made by
the fair folk... copied I would guess... though where and when and by who is
a mystery to me, as it's all in elvish."

Frodo picked it up, and opened it. The leaves were brittle, and he handled
it with utmost care. If there had been a title page, it was missing, but it
was indeed written in elvish, and not Sindarin but Quenya, a poem, one he'd
never seen before. "Sam... look at this... "

Sam collected his wits as best he could. Frodo looked at him smiling, his
whole face lit up, and beckoning, wanting to share what he'd found. It was
all Sam could do walking over there, to look over Frodo's shoulder at the
book in his hands, the page he had open. Frodo had taught him a few words of
elvish, for speaking, but the writing and reading of it still befuddled him
for the most part, and he couldn't even try to think about it then and there,
like that. "I can't read it, Mister Frodo sir."

Frodo slowly shook his head. "No... I'll have a hard time with it myself...
it's Quenya... a poem... something new." Well, hardly that, but new to him,
something they could puzzle out together. Puddleby stood there smiling,
figuring he'd already made the deal, looking a bit smug in fact. Frodo
closed the little book and set it back down on the table. He wanted that one
as much as he wanted the other, but it was the other he'd have to pay for,
and Puddleby appeared to be in a mood for haggling. This, at least, Bilbo
had taught him well. He pushed himself up from the chair. "I'm going to be
awhile yet, Sam. Why don't you go ahead and see to what business you have...
then we can meet at the Green Dragon for lunch."

Sam opened his mouth, to say what? That he wasn't sure they ought to be
lunching together at the Green Dragon? The Gaffer wouldn't think much of the
notion, he was sure, but if it made Frodo happy, that was all there was to
that. "Aye, sir." He stepped back, and took himself off, as the shopkeeper
was inviting Frodo to the parlour for tea. Sam didn't imagine the buying of
a book could take too awfully long, and he didn't mean to waste the time.

Walking through the streets of Bywater on his own, it struck him, just
how different it had been walking through Hobbiton at Frodo's heels. Folk
smiled and waved, and asked after the Gaffer and the sisters, real friendly
just like always. He had a bit of a hard time being friendly in return,
knowing at least a few of them would be whispering behind his back if he was
Frodo.

If he was Frodo... now there was a strange thought, and one that he quickly
dismissed. After seeing Frodo in that place full of books and learning
looking like he'd been set aglow from inside, Sam couldn't begin to think he
understood what Frodo thought and felt. All he could do was just love
everything Frodo was, and he did, with all his heart. His brain got stuck
for awhile on seeing Frodo's delicate fingers touching the elvish words on
that page, and he found himself on the lane to the widow Muffet's without
knowing quite how he'd got there.

Setting aside everything from his mind but seeing Frodo happy had put him in
right good spirits again, and he had a nice chat with the widow while they
filled a sack full of currants from the bushes in her yard. As luck would
have it, she was happy to make the trade, and he left her the apples as well,
since they were going to have lunch at the Green Dragon. When all was said
and done, that felt like being a lad again and having someone hand him a
sweet for no reason at all. If it didn't trouble Frodo, he wasn't going to
let it trouble him. He wished the widow a happy day, then headed off for the
Green Dragon at an eager jog.

The price finally settled on was a fair and reasonable one from either side,
and though it cost Frodo plenty he didn't begrudge it for a moment. He was
sure Uncle Bilbo would have done the same. They wrapped the books in cloth
for him to protect them, both of them, and he carefully stuffed them into his
pack along with the ink he'd come for, and a sheaf of parchment, and several
fresh quills, then he hoisted the pack to his back and thanked all the
various Puddlebys gathered around, and he set out to meet Sam.

There was entirely too much coming and going on the streets for his comfort,
but Frodo put on his smile and nodded amiably when it was called for, and was
just glad it was a short way to the edge of town, where Sam was there outside
the Green Dragon waiting, with his sleeves rolled down and his buttons done
up, his shirt tail neatly tucked into his breeches, and the sun shining
through his tousled ginger gold hair. Frodo found a genuine smile, raising
a hand in greeting, and Sam came to meet him wearing a grin.

"That was a piece of good timing, Mister Frodo. I've just come up the lane
myself. Hope you got what you were wanting, sir." From the smile on his
face, he surely had.

"I did, Sam... and you?"

Sam held up his sack. "Enough for Daisy to turn into jam for you, sir.
Course I'll have to pick up those sausages fore we leave town, since it won't
do for em to sit in this heat too long."

Frodo just smiled and nodded, in no mind to think about shopping. "Let's
have lunch then." He was of a mind to think about that, and since he wasn't
often the whim was best catered to when it struck. They went inside, where
it was cooler, and darker, and Frodo led the way to a back table. The place
was bustling, and he couldn't doubt a few curious looks followed him, but he
determinedly ignored all of that. He slid the pack from his back and gently
lowered it to the floor, and settled himself at the table.

Sam sat down across from Frodo, put down his sack, and took up a strap of the
pack to lift it a little, just testing. Frodo made a face at him, but
smiled.

"Really, Sam, I may not have your shoulders, but I can certainly carry a
couple of books from Bywater to Bag End."

Sam wasn't about to say he couldn't, but... "That's some heavy book, sir."

Frodo laughed. "I paid some heavy price for it."

Sam smiled at him back, for the laughter, but steered well clear of making
jokes over what Frodo did with his money. When someone came by, they ordered
onion soup and a loaf of fresh crusty bread for dipping, and Frodo requested
an ale, then turned to him, looking like he wished he didn't have to ask.

"Are you allowed, Sam?"

Sam smiled. "Oh aye, sir, seeing it's for special... and past high sun, mind
you."

Frodo ordered an ale for Sam as well. It made him feel strange, but Sam put
his elbows on the table and leaned over it a little, looking perfectly happy
with the situation.

"Did I tell you, Mister Frodo, my Gaffer thinks we'll have a real good season
with the fruit trees, and he said those pears down along the wall weren't
blighted after all, it's just cause it's been dry. It's a right wonder to me
how he knows, but he's saying we'll have rain afore the week's through, then
things'll freshen up I guess. Makes me think, it does... do you suppose I'd
feel the rain coming too, sir, if I was to break my leg and got to lie abed
for a month talking to the spiders like my Gaffer did?"

Frodo laughed. "I don't know, Sam, but I hope you aren't thinking of trying
it. I'm sure the garden would suffer severely if you weren't there to take
care of it." As he would.

Sam smiled and said it was just a thought he'd had come to him. Their lunch
was brought, and two brimming mugs of ale, and before they were halfway
through it, Sam was chattering away about whatever came into his head. As
long as Frodo sat there smiling back at him, nothing else mattered.

Frodo was having a hard time not falling right into it, gazing into Sam's
eyes dark and glimmering in the lamplight. Sooner or later it had to occur
to him, how it must look. Sam's love for him might be as innocent as a
newborn lamb, but his love for Sam wasn't, not anymore, and maybe it showed
more than he wanted to believe, especially with Sam looking at him like that.
He finally forced his eyes down. "Sam... "

Sam cut himself short, dropped his gaze into his soup bowl, and gave his
attention to finishing his lunch. He didn't need to be told what he'd done.
He'd forgot himself in the pleasure of it all, and he'd talked too much, and
too easy, like he had a right to be talking to Frodo like that, which he
didn't. The Gaffer would have his hide to hear him at it. But he'd never
have thought to see Frodo take it amiss.

Frodo's nerves all tightened up. He couldn't bring himself to look around,
to see who might be watching and listening, but he also couldn't leave Sam to
think what he must be thinking. "Sam... I didn't mean... " ... for you to
stop, not forever, just long enough so he could think.

Sam quietly laid down his spoon on the table, and wrapped both hands around
his nearly empty mug, but he couldn't quite manage to look up. "I'm real
sorry, Mister Frodo sir. My Gaffer always told me I'd talk my head off one
day, and I'm guessing this might just be what he meant." There was a
splooshing clink of Frodo's spoon settling into his bowl.

For an extremely unpleasant little while, Frodo wasn't sure he was going to
keep down what he'd eaten, but it passed, and he got his breath, and just
wanted to get out of there. "Have you finished, Sam?"

Sam glanced up enough to see that Frodo hadn't, and though it went against
his grain to leave good food and drink go to waste, he nodded. "Aye, sir."

With an effort of sheer will, Frodo put a decent face on it, focusing
straight ahead as they walked out, and kept walking, out of town on Bywater
Road, until there was no one in sight coming or going. Sam was keeping
several paces behind him, silent, head down and eyes fixed on the road before
his feet, and he stopped when Frodo did. Frodo laid a hand over his queasy
stomach for a moment, then walked back there to stand in front of him.
"Please don't stop talking to me, Sam."

Sam felt that, and looked up to meet his eyes, "I couldn't, sir... ", and
looked down again. "But I know I went too far, Mister Frodo, and I'm real
sorry I embarrassed you."

Frodo couldn't stop himself, reached out and gripped Sam's shoulders, and
insisted he look up. "I didn't mean what you think I meant, Sam. We have
every right to be together in public as friends. It wasn't your fault in any
way. Is that understood?"

Sam just dumbly nodded, but in truth he wasn't sure it wasn't all his fault,
because sometimes what he was feeling for Frodo seeped out of him like
rainwater through burlap, and he couldn't stop it for anything. Frodo looked
at him like he might just be doing it that very moment, then Frodo took back
his hands, and turned away. Sam watched him shift his pack, trying to make
it comfortable, and wanted badly to carry it for him, but didn't say a word
about it, and Frodo finally turned back, and smiled a little.

"Wasn't there something you wanted to get before we left town?"

Sam nodded again. "Those sausages." But they were well out of Bywater by
then, and Bumble's was all the way across town the other way. "It don't
matter, Mister Frodo, unless you had your heart set on em."

Frodo didn't particularly. They went on toward Hobbiton, and he deliberately
walked at Sam's side, whether Sam thought it was proper or not, and just did
his damnedest to keep his thoughts and his feelings to himself. Thankfully,
Sam quickly got over the whole thing, seemingly, and went back to being his
Sam, if just a bit more subdued.

"You know, Mister Frodo, I was looking round the cellar up at Bag End the
other day, and there's a corner empty that'd be perfect for growing shrooms.
We don't have a cellar at home, but I've got a little patch tucked back into
the pantry and they do alright even with all the coming and going, but down
in your cellar would be a better place by leaps. Course it'd be a bit of
mess getting set up, but then you'd have em whenever you wanted."

Dear Sam, always thinking of him. "It's a grand idea, Sam... but it sounds
like a lot of work to me."

Sam laughed. "I don't mind the work, sir... if you don't mind the mess."

Frodo did his best to get over it too. "I have created messes that would
curl the hair on your toes, Sam... as you well know. I think one more won't
hurt."

Sam smiled, immensely relieved to have it forgotten, if Frodo was willing to.
But when they came into Hobbiton, there was still that to get through. Frodo
drew himself up like he thought he was facing down a dragon, and put on that
smile that wasn't really his, the one he gave to unwanted company, which
would be most anyone that came up to Bag End unasked. Sam couldn't help
thinking folk might take to him better if he could only be more himself with
them, but then the folk of Hobbiton could have been more accepting of him
when he was a lad, and maybe he wouldn't ever have had to learn how to do
that. It was a sad thing, but Sam didn't know how to fix it. He quietly
asked one more time if Frodo wouldn't like to just go on home and let him do
the shopping, but Frodo had set his mind to it and wouldn't be deterred.

It was really one of Frodo's least favorite things to do, dealing with the
market, but by that token it was one of the few real challenges he still put
himself to, and he stubbornly meant to see it through. At least he had Sam
there to comment on what looked good and what didn't, and remind him of
anything he forgot, and to help him carry things, that too, because honestly
he only had two hands.

Sam suggested as they were leaving town and heading back up the hill at last
that it might be less of a job if he was to do the shopping more often, but
Frodo didn't look like he thought that a good idea at all. As for offering
again to carry Frodo's pack at that point, they were both thoroughly laden,
and he'd taken as much more than his share as he could.

Frodo felt his load lighten as soon as they left the lane and passed through
Bag End's garden gate, home where there was no need to pretend, where he
could smile at Sam, within reason, and not have to worry what all of Hobbiton
and Bywater were thinking, and saying. They went in the back door, dusted
and sweaty and needing to wash up before going inside. The bags and packages
all got stacked in the hallway, then Sam helped him off with his pack.

"I could start the kettles heating in the bath, Mister Frodo, if you'd like
to get cleaned up proper."

It was tempting actually, to settle into a hot bath and forget everything for
a time, but of course Frodo knew precisely where that would lead, the way he
felt after spending all morning with Sam, and the thought of doing such a
thing with Sam anywhere on the premises truly revolted him. He would have
his bath after Sam left for the night, as always. "I might go out in the
garden with you and get even sweatier... so there really wouldn't be any
point, Sam."

Sam discouraged that without delay. "You've been out in the sun plenty for
today, sir, don't you think? You wouldn't want to go through that again."
That being what he'd gone through after That Day, sick with the sunburn, so
he'd said, hardly coming out of his room for days. Sam didn't want to go
through it again, that was a fact.

Frodo turned away, not liking to even think about it, about what he'd started
that day. He pumped fresh cool water into the basin and splashed his face,
that helped. Going back out into the sunshine with Sam wouldn't, so Sam won
that one. They cleaned up as well as they needed to there in the mud room,
then they gathered up the groceries and carted everything down the hall to
the kitchen and the pantries, and when it was all put away where it belonged,
Sam built up the hearthfire and put on a kettle.

"Would you like some of those honey cakes, Mister Frodo? You left half your
lunch behind at the Green Dragon."

Frodo didn't want to think about that either. "No thank you, Sam, not right
now... but tea would be nice. Do you have a lot to do in the garden?"

Sam took himself out to the garden in his mind, and had a look around.
"Well, the watering has to be done, sir... and the compost needs turning...
and there's the weeding and deadheading that needs doing every day... not too
awful much. I'll fit it in right enough. You might as well go on ahead to
the study, Mister Frodo, and I'll bring you your tea when its ready."

Frodo told himself he ought to be making his own damned tea, but Sam already
had it well in hand and seemed to want it just that way, so there was nothing
he could do but go on to the study. He took up his pack on the way in, and
leaned it against the side of the desk before he sat down. There was plenty
he needed to be doing himself, plenty he needed to be doing that he'd been
putting off, and putting off, like answering his mail. He'd been owing
cousin Merry a letter for way too long, and though he'd never lump writing to
Merry in with the rest, he just didn't know what to say to the lad lately.

Opening a drawer, he took out the stack of mail he was obliged to answer at
some time or other. Merry's latest letter was on top. The rest were from
other relatives mostly, polite keeping in touch correspondence, and there
were a couple from lasses who hadn't yet given up on him completely, and
several from Aunt Lobelia, shudders, wanting to know on the surface why he
never came to visit. He almost put the whole stack of them back in the
drawer to deal with later, almost. Sam came in with his tea about then, and
glanced at his pack there on the floor.

"Thought you'd have your new books out, sir." That was what he wanted to be
doing, Sam was sure. Frodo looked up at him with a better face than the one
he'd had on.

"I'll wait for you to finish your work, Sam, then we can look at them
together."

Sam was touched to the heart, and couldn't doubt it showed. "You don't have
to do that, Mister Frodo."

Frodo smiled at him. "I want to, Sam."

Sam smiled at him back. "I'll not dilly dally then, sir." He stood there a
long moment more just the same, caught up in the two of them smiling back and
forth like that, then had to just tear himself away.

Frodo listened to Sam walking out, to the back door opening and closing, and
he heaved a great sigh, staring at Merry's letter, Merry's perky impetuous
handwriting on the envelope. He wished Merry was there, someone he could
touch, someone he could hug and be hugged by, just for warmth and caring, if
that hadn't changed as well. It had been a couple of months since they'd
seen each other, and things did change, he could bear witness to that. He
had a gulp of his tea, though it was too hot, then forced himself to take out
a sheet of parchment and begin.

'Dear cousin Merry, I'm sorry I haven't written back sooner, but... ' "But
what? But I've been too busy lusting after poor Sam to much think about
anything else!" He dropped his quill and put a hand over his mouth,
listening intently, but there was only the sound of the breeze whispering by
outside, and a bee faintly buzzing among the flowers under the window. He
wiped away the sweat beaded on his upper lip, and took up the quill again,
dipped it, and concentrated. '... I've been working hard... '

The quill tip screeched, and a blob of ink spread over the parchment. He
took in a calming breath, slid it aside to put out a fresh one, and tried
again, but found himself just sitting there, his mind flashing back to Merry
telling him that tale, of spying on two older lads lying together in a
thicket of reeds down by the river, telling it to him in excruciating detail.
Though Merry, at barely twelve, had seemed to take it for a lark, it had
touched Frodo in ways that had disturbed him deeply, and that was pretty much
all he'd ever heard of such things, because Merry had never mentioned
anything of the kind ever again.

Frodo wished desperately that he'd had the nerve to ask Uncle Bilbo while he
had the chance. He needed someone to talk to about it, and there wasn't
anyone. The plain truth was he hadn't fit in at Brandy Hall then much better
than he did in Hobbiton now, and he hadn't grown up with close friends his
own age, too shy and bookish for the wild ways his Brandybuck cousins mostly
tended toward, and besides Bilbo the only father figure he'd really had in
his life since he was a teen was Master Saradoc. He could only imagine what
Merry's father would say if he confessed to this terrible compulsion, or
where it would go from there, to his being denied Merry's friendship quite
likely, and probably Pip's as well. Feeling pitifully sorry for himself, he
couldn't help thinking that might be best, for their sakes.

In no good frame of mind for it, he gave up on Merry's letter, and tried
writing one to Aunt Lobelia instead. 'Dear Aunt Lo... ' The quill tip
caught, and blotched the page with ink stains. He clenched his teeth and
held his breath, and forcibly stilled the trembling in his hand, then he took
out another fresh sheet, and kept on trying.

Sam spent what was left of the afternoon in an untypical rush, forcing the
work he would normally have been half the day at into a couple of hours, to
the benefit of the weeds he overlooked, just the tiniest ones hiding in the
undergrowth where they couldn't be seen, yet, but not his best effort by a
long shot. He wasn't too very proud of the work, but Frodo was waiting on
him to finish. He turned the compost heaps, one onto the next, heaving great
forkfuls with too little care for where they landed, and leaving them
untidier than he was wont to do, though out beyond the orchard no one would
see them but him, as long as the Gaffer didn't choose that time to come up
and check on his work, not likely since the Gaffer trusted him these days to
do his best. That gave him pause, briefly, making him think he ought to go
back and do it right, but he didn't. Frodo was waiting.

Dripping with sweat, he made his way back down to the well to get washed.
Since Frodo had taken to asking him in after hours, he'd taken to bringing
along an extra clean shirt, not to be more offensive than he couldn't help
being, so he unslung his braces and stripped off the soppy one he was
wearing, and cleaned up thoroughly, then he went among the flowers picking a
big handful of the best blues and whites before he went in. Fresh sweat
broke out on his brow before the chill in the mud room had a chance to cool
him down. He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe it away, then put on his
clean shirt and made himself presentable. He didn't stop at the open study
door, but glanced in as he very quietly passed by. Frodo had his penknife
out, sharpening his nib, frowning at it like it had done him some harm. Sam
wanted to just walk in there and hand him the flowers, and tell him not to
worry about it, whatever it was, but that was surely going too far. He went
on to the kitchen, to make a fresh pot of tea.

'Dear cousin Merry, please forgive me for not answering your letter sooner.
I'm afraid I have no excuse, unless it be laziness, but don't want you to
think I haven't thought of you, I have, and wish I could get away to Buckland
for a nice long visit... ' Scritch. The quill scattered droplets of ink
every which way, and Frodo had no choice but to give it up. He'd managed the
rest finally, had even gotten a letter written to Aunt Lobelia that was
blotch free, though filled with apology and evasion, but this one continued
to elude him, which was just what he deserved for trying to lie to Merry.
The truth was he didn't wish to be anywhere but at Bag End, with Sam.

"Mister Frodo... "

Frodo looked up and there Sam was, with a tray of tea and cakes, and flowers,
a vase overflowing with lilies and petunias and clusters of forget me nots,
and blooms that only Sam knew the names of. He smiled, and came to put the
tray down, and set the vase onto the desktop looking a little bashful, not
like Sam at all. Of course, it was hardly the first time he'd brought
flowers inside to brighten the place up, but this didn't feel like that, at
all. Frodo found a grateful smile, he hoped. "How beautiful!"

A silly notion came into Sam's head to tell Frodo they looked like weeds in
his own beautiful presence, but that also was going too far, much as it was
the pure truth. Frodo gave him a hopeful look.

"Are you finished working?"

Sam smiled and said, "Aye, sir.", and Frodo told him to pull up a chair, and
cleared his desk, and took out his new books, the big heavy one first. Sam
poured their tea, and moved the plate of honey cakes to within Frodo's easy
reach, then settled down to look at the book with him. For all the handsome
books on Frodo's shelves, even the ones up top that were his and Mister
Bilbo's favorites, Sam had never seen a handsomer one, the pages all edged
with gold and the text framed in vines and flowers, and swords and shields,
text that looked penned by someone who'd never in his life had an o come out
lumpy, and pictures, pictures Sam could have looked at for hours without
seeing all they had to say.

"You can touch it, Sam."

Sam thought not. "Oh nay, Mister Frodo, I wouldn't want to do that." Frodo
just smiled a little, and went on slowly turning the pages, until they'd
glanced over it once through, then he turned it back to the beginning, to a
painting of a great city that grew out the side of a mountain it seemed, with
tiers and spires and a broad river running at its feet, all soft and bright
like it was washed with moonshine. Frodo's eyes seemed to glow.

"Uncle Bilbo would have loved this. He always wanted to see Minas Tirith."

"Bless me, sir... that's a real place?"

Frodo smiled. "It is indeed. It's where this book came from... and a good
many of those as well.", with a wave of his hand toward the shelves. Sam
stared at the picture like he was trying to make it come to life.

"Is it a place of the elves, Mister Frodo?"

Frodo solemnly shook his head. "No... it's a city of men."

That rather confounded Sam. "I never heard tell any place of the big folk
looked like that."

Frodo leaned his head on one hand, his focus shifted from the picture to Sam.
"It's very far away, Sam... in the south." Sam looked at him, and looked at
the picture again.

"Do you think old Mister Bilbo might have gone there, sir?"

Frodo considered that, not for the first time. "I think he may have."

Sam felt his eyes go misty, and swallowed it down as best he could. "I would
dearly love to know old Mister Bilbo had got himself to someplace special
like that... though I can't see Mister Bilbo hobnobbing with the big folk...
if you know what I mean, sir."

Frodo could, in a way. "I've never known anyone as brave as Uncle Bilbo. He
wouldn't have been afraid to go to the south."

Sam wholeheartedly agreed with that. "Nay, sir, Mister Bilbo weren't afraid
of anything." But Mister Bilbo was eleventy-three years old. "How far would
that be, Mister Frodo?"

"To Minas Tirith... hundreds of leagues." Frodo supposed that was a bit more
than Sam could comprehend. His brown eyes grew wide.

"Hundreds... " The tears went right ahead and welled up. "I sure hope old
Mister Bilbo had some company on such a walk as that."

Frodo felt a painful twinge, and closed his eyes tight shut. "He should
have."

Sam kicked himself, hard, but there wasn't any unsaying it.

Frodo breathed a sorrowful sigh, and opened his eyes, and Sam was staring at
him with tears running down his face. In the emotion of the moment it was
either pull him close and hold him, or turn away, quickly. Frodo turned
away. If he'd gone with Uncle Bilbo as he should have, none of it would have
happened. The Sackville-Bagginses would be in Bag End, and Sam would have
nothing worse than Aunt Lobelia to deal with. Poor Sam wouldn't thank him
for that. He was abruptly seized by a fit of laughter that made his chest
ache.

Sam couldn't think what that might mean, but it didn't feel like a good
thing. He smeared his face on his shirtsleeves and ordered himself in his
head to stop blubbering, in the Gaffer's voice to be sure he took heed, and
Frodo had stopped laughing by then, was sitting there with his head in his
hand looking tired and sad. The sight pierced Sam's heart. "Mister Frodo...
I'm sorry... I reckon old Mister Bilbo has got all the elves and all the
dwarves and all the wizards too looking out for him."

Frodo heard the tremble in Sam's voice, and forcibly got himself together.
It was true enough. He needed Bilbo far more than Bilbo needed him. "It's
alright, Sam. I don't want you to ever feel you have to be careful of what
you say to me."

Sam looked down from Frodo's eyes. He always tried to be careful what he
said, he just didn't always catch himself in time. But Frodo made like it
didn't matter. He softly blew across the page, then closed the big book and
put it aside, then he took out the one that was in elvish.

"Best for last." Saddened to have lost Sam's smile, Frodo went out of his
way to get it back. He well knew what would make Sam happy. He carefully
opened the shabby little book on the desktop, and started reading from it.
He didn't half understand what he was saying, because he'd been still
learning high elvish when Bilbo left, but he translated what he could of it
in his mind, and it began to come together, and if he'd understood none of
it, it would have soothed his soul anyway, just feeling the words sweet and
succulent on his tongue.

Sam sat there with his hands clasped in his lap, his heart purring. There
wasn't a lovelier thing to hear than Frodo speaking elvish, and it took him
right away to moonlight falling on a quiet wood without his even having to
close his eyes, which he couldn't do anyway, not with Frodo looking like
that, like the rare precious spirit inside him was shining through. Frodo
was just too perfect and beautiful for words.

Looking up from the page as he turned to the next, Frodo's gaze met Sam's and
his heartbeat stuttered. The room was too still and quiet all of a sudden,
the air too hot and heavy to breathe, and they were far too close. The light
of love in Sam's eyes made him very afraid of what was in his own, and that
fear made him push the book away and stumble to his feet. "Sam... I think
you should go home."

Sam felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach, but if it showed on his face
at least Frodo had turned away and didn't have to see it. He slowly stood.
"I thought I'd be fixing your supper for you, Mister Frodo, like usual." He
had been for the past many nights, then they would sit in the parlour and
read, or just talk. It was what he most looked forward to all day every day.
But Frodo had had enough, always when it seemed like everything was just
right.

"Sam... " Frodo managed to turn back, but didn't dare look him in the face.
"Please don't be angry with me."

Sam fixed his eyes on the floor. "I couldn't be, sir."

Frodo helplessly raised a hand to his head. "I have this pain... probably
from writing Aunt Lobelia... I might just go to bed early."

Sam glanced up, not sure he believed that, but wanting to. "I could fix you
something for it, Mister Frodo... " Nay. Frodo just didn't want him there,
as was Frodo's right after all.

"I'll be fine, Sam. You shouldn't have to sit up here with me night after
night."

Sam bit his tongue and said nothing to that. "What about your supper, sir?"

Frodo took in a breath. "I can do it. I've been watching you."

More likely he'd just scrounge, but at least the pantry was stocked. Sam
couldn't see any way around it. "Alright, Mister Frodo. I'll just take care
of the fires for you."

Frodo couldn't stand for that. "No, Sam, you've done enough. Go home and
spend some time with your family. Please."

Sam finally couldn't do anything else.

Powerless not to, Frodo watched him to the study door, and out, then hugged
his arms across his middle, and called after him. "Goodnight, Sam." Sam's
voice reached him back, faint and subdued.

"Goodnight, Mister Frodo."

Frodo walked back to the desk, and sank down into his chair there. His head
did ache, miserably, but it probably had little to do with Aunt Lobelia.
He'd hurt Sam's feelings, and his own heart was in tatters. It couldn't go
on, but he didn't know how to stop it, short of going away. He shoved
himself up again and went to the window, in time to see Sam going out the
garden gate and heading down the lane, looking like someone had stomped all
over his favorite roses. The urge to call him back was intense, to call him
back and just tell him, and let the chips fall where they would, but Frodo
knew just how it would fall if he were to do such a thing, on Sam pretending
it was alright at the very least, wanting to do for him at the worst, with no
regard for what Sam wanted or didn't want himself.

Sam disappeared around the curve of the hill, and the day lost all its
brightness. It wasn't late, the sun barely touching the hilltops in the
west, but inside the shadows deepened, and the silence as well. Frodo
finally pushed himself from the window with a sigh, and spied a bit of faded
red cloth on the floor half under the desk, Sam's handkerchief. He walked
over there, stooped down, and picked it up, and he raised it to his face and
closed his eyes. It smelled of Sam, of the breath he got of Sam when he
allowed himself that close, of earth and green growing things and the sweat
of honest toil, only deeper and richer, Sam's very essence.

Gripping the edge of the desktop to keep himself steady, he crouched there
feeling the heat rise in him. He despised himself for it, but he clenched
Sam's handkerchief in his hand and kept it, dragging himself to his feet,
pushing himself out and down the hall into the dark chill bath chamber. The
fire wasn't lit, because he'd told Sam he'd do it himself. He turned around
and stalked back out, to the kitchen, to find a candle to light at the
hearthfire there, which also needed attending to of course. He didn't, just
took himself back to the bath, and thankfully found the grate stacked and
ready to be lit. Even that took some effort, but he got it going at last,
and made sure the kettles were filled, then he went back to the kitchen,
through the pantry and down the cellar steps, the candlelight flickering
weird shadows on the walls and the ceiling and the floor.

It was cold enough in the cellar to make him shiver, but the fire inside him
burned on. He didn't linger there, just grabbed a bottle of Old Winyards
from the rack, then went back to the kitchen to open it. His nerves grated
unreasonably at being unable to find anything appropriate to put it in, and
he finally took the bottle with him tucked into the crook of his arm, with
Sam's handkerchief clutched in one hand, and the candlestick precariously
gripped in his other, to the dining room, where he located a proper wineglass
in the fancy cabinet. He set down the candle and the bottle, took out the
glass and filled it, and poured it down with a shudder, then filled it again.

The water in the kettles was barely simmering when he made it back to the
bath, but he couldn't wait any longer. He forced down the last of his third
glass of wine, enough to fog thinking and help him forget just how much he
didn't want to do it. He pulled off his clothes and left them scattered as
they landed, and sank down into the water at last with his heart beating slow
and heavy, with Sam's handkerchief still in his shaking hand. Even half
inebriated, he knew how despicable it was, but he couldn't stop it then. He
wrapped one hand around the pounding ache and roughly gripped it, and he
buried his face in the bittersweet smell of Sam and tortured himself one more
time.

Sam had his bath in glum silence, too flustered to think quite straight, with
Frodo telling him one thing, then telling him another, asking him to stay,
then saying he should go, 'Can't you stay a little longer, Sam?' then turning
right around 'I think it's time you went home, Sam.', and those eyes never
looking any less like it was the staying he really wanted. Sam ground his
fists into his watering eyes. It was enough to make his head spin round.
But it wasn't enough to make his love for Frodo shine any less brilliant.

"Samwise... if you're coming for supper you'd best come now!"

The door came open, and May poked her head in. He slid himself down into the
bathwater with a growl. "Hey... " She just laughed at him.

"Why aren't you singing?"

Sam tossed her a half hearted frown and mumbled, "Don't feel like it." She
looked at him like she was sorry, and backed out.

"Better hurry, little brother. Da's just got back from Overhill and he's
looking hungry."

She closed the door, and he dragged himself out to get dried and dressed,
then quick got himself to the supper table. The Gaffer looked at him, and
didn't say a word, and he didn't have anything to say himself, so he just sat
there staring at his plate while they put the food on the table. Goldy set
a big dish of braised carrots with celery right in front of him, like she was
trying to butter him up. He glanced her a cautious look, and she gave him a
sweet smile back, just being kind. He tried to feel better, tried to listen
to their talk and just pretend his day hadn't been eventful enough to comment
on, but he couldn't manage to much more than chase things around his plate as
far as eating went, and he was glad enough when it was over. He pushed
himself up to help clear the dishes, but the Gaffer stopped him.

"The girls'll do that, Samwise... I want a word with you."

A lump came up in Sam's throat, but he didn't so much as open his mouth, just
stood by the front door waiting while the Gaffer took down his pipe from the
mantle, then went outside with him. The sun had dropped and dusk was
gathering. Sam moved to sink down to the bench below the window, where the
Gaffer did most of his after supper talking to.

"We're going to walk, lad."

Sam stopped himself in mid sit, with that lump in his throat just about to
choke him. Walking and talking to was a sight more serious than sitting and
talking to, and that calm easy tone didn't bode well either. The Gaffer took
out his pouch, then took out a pipe from his pocket, a new one, and handed it
to him. He stood there holding it in his hand, with all kinds of thoughts
racing around in his head, like getting a few puffs from the Gaffer's pipe
when they had that particular talk, and if this meant they were going to have
another of those talks, why did it feel like such a bad thing? Because it
likely meant the Gaffer Knew, and the Gaffer could forbid him to go back up
to Bag End ever again. His stomach twisted into knots.

"How old are you, Samwise?"

Sam futilely swallowed at the lump. "I'm twenty-three, sir." The Gaffer
offered his pouch, and Sam filled his first pipe for the first time, with his
hands shaking so bad it was all he could do not spilling it all over the
ground. The Gaffer bent down then and struck a match against the last stone
in their walk, and they lit their pipes from it. Thankfully, Sam had had
enough unofficial experience not to choke on it. The Gaffer started walking
down Bagshot Row, and he couldn't do anything but follow.

"I heard tell you went to town with Mister Baggins today. And never you mind
who said so, it was said for your own good."

Sam attempted to wipe the look of shock from his face. "I did, sir... to
market. I went along to carry for him." The Gaffer glanced him a sidelong
look, and kept on walking.

"I heard tell too you were dragging on Mister Baggins' tail like a moonstruck
calf."

Sam clenched his teeth so tight it felt like sparks shot through his brain.

"That's how it was told to me, though there's others won't say it so nice."

They just strolled, for what felt like forever, and Sam's new pipe dangled
from his hand forgotten. They came to the stables and turned to walk back,
then he got it in full.

"If you think I've not seen the way you've been acting, Samwise, then you're
twice the fool, strutting round up at Bag End like a young banty cock.
You're old enough to have no excuse for not seeing the effect that sort of
thing can have on the one it's aimed at."

That was a blow, because Sam hadn't thought of it that way. The Gaffer
breathed out a puff of smoke, and seemed to sigh.

"I've tried all your life to keep your feet on the ground where they belong,
and truth be told the Bagginses haven't ever made that easy for me. Young
Mister Frodo takes right after his uncle, he does, and more, not wanting to
see where the line ought to be drawn. But it's not up to the Bagginses to
keep you in your place, Samwise Gamgee, it's up to you to keep yourself
there. Taking tea with your betters and reading books aren't what you were
made for, and it's a lesson it's time you learned."

The Gaffer stopped walking, and Sam hung his head and just stood there
trembling all over.

"Nothing to say, lad?"

Nothing. The Gaffer chuckled.

"Well, there's a new one."

Sam wanted to go home to bed, wanted to go to sleep and dream of Frodo and
never wake up again. But the Gaffer wasn't finished with him, stood staring
up at the sky for a little while, then crossed his arms and dropped his voice
down low and quiet.

"Alright then, here tis... it's all well and good to be young and to do what
lads do, but there'll come a day you'll have to grow up, sooner than you
think, and placing your affections where they don't belong will get you a
whole lot of heartache and not much else. Remember, Samwise, you're the one
who'll be dragging yourself up that hill every day for the rest of your life,
at least til you've got a lad of your own to take it over, and if you've got
to grit your teeth and swallow a bitter pill every day to do it, you'll have
no life worth living."

Sam couldn't get a breath into his lungs, and the Gaffer put a hand on his
shoulder and looked him straight in the eye.

"I know what I'm speaking of."

That was the shocker to beat all, no mistake. Sam stared back into his
father's eyes in the failing twilight, and understood what he was saying, but
the Gaffer didn't give him any chance to ask further.

"I'll be taking another turn or two. You can go on inside. And don't you
lose that pipe first thing."

Sam found enough of his voice to promise he wouldn't, then took himself on
home and left the Gaffer standing there in the lane looking up at the stars.
He went in and headed straight for his room, leaving the sisters paused in
their chit chat staring after him, because he had some hard thinking to do.
Not that thinking was going to change anything. Maybe he was doomed like the
Gaffer said to spend his life wishing for things he wasn't ever going to get,
but it couldn't be undone if he'd wanted. He loved Frodo.

The bed creaked and groaned as he flopped himself down onto it, and lay there
staring into the blackness. He intently caressed his fingers over the smooth
polished wood of his new pipe, wishing he'd hugged his father while there was
a chance that seemed right for it. The Gaffer would have frowned and shooed
him off, but Sam didn't think he would have really minded.

Frodo sank down at Uncle Bilbo's desk in the study feeling drained and numb,
with no heart whatsoever for the work he'd been doing. There were the new
books, but if he'd thought they might offer some distraction from Sam, he'd
been sadly mistaken, because he wanted Sam there to share them with. He
moved them well out of the way, had enough sense still to do that, before he
poured himself another glass of Old Winyards, and tipped it up. The shutters
were open at the window, a night breeze rustling through the garden. He'd
dressed, thinking he might go out for a long walk and try to clear his head.
But he didn't have the energy to try, and didn't particularly want his head
clear for that matter. He sat there and just stared at the flowers Sam had
brought him. He'd discussed it with himself at length, the notion of going
away, of just packing up and going off in search of Bilbo, but the awful
truth was he didn't have the courage for it, simply couldn't bear to leave
Sam, much as it hurt sometimes being near him. He fumbled out a parchment
finally, reached for his quill and clumsily dipped it, and wrote at the top
'Dearest Sam... ' He blinked at it, not focusing well. That was no way to
start a letter to Merry, but since he'd gone that far, he went ahead with it.
'How I love you and yearn for you dear Sam and how it breaks my heart to see
your pure unsullied love for me and know how unworthy I am... ' He filled
the whole page with such nonsense, fully intending to rip it up into tiny
pieces when he was finished.

True Love, part three, Touching is rated NC17 and can be found at
.?id=679&sort=date&storyview=toc&chapter=1&cat=11
Part three can also be found at
.org/cleocalliope/WhetherOrNo/Fanfiction/Fanfic/TrueLove3_

I've been informed that readers have lately been having trouble linking to part three.
If neither of the above links works for you, please feel free to email me at
and I will be glad to send you part three as a text file.