Author’s note: This chapter is dedicated to Europanya, without whose excellent and admirable ‘An Ordinary Evening’ this might never have been written. Frodo read An Ordinary Evening over my shoulder and immediately demanded I write him some ‘revenge’. He can be very bossy like that sometimes; I think it’s the Brandybuck in him. Sam took a peek at what I was writing and said, ‘Bugger me! If you think I’m going to remember that without getting some relief, you’re a dafter wench than I thought!’

So don’t blame me, blame them...

CHAPTER 4: STANDING STILL

‘Sam? Sam!’

Sam groaned, and for the second time that evening leant into a hand caressing his cheek.

‘Sam! Can you hear me?’

Sam opened his eyes, and Frodo’s face swam almost into focus, full of anxiety. He raised his hand to his throbbing cheek and flinched, before gingerly feeling the back of his head. His fingers came away sticky with blood. Frodo lifted him to his feet and supported him as he sagged in his arms.

‘Here, Sam. Sit down, my love,’ said Frodo with concern, and Sam fell gratefully into the chair. He still couldn’t focus properly, and felt dizzy and sick. He closed his eyes again, and an arm wrapped around his shoulders. A light kiss brushed across his lips, and he opened his eyes to take Frodo’s hand in his.

‘I’m all right,’ he croaked.

‘Oh, Sam. You don’t look it!’ Frodo laughed with relief, and kissed him again. Sam smiled back shakily, and with a great effort finally managed to focus on Frodo.

‘I must have slipped,’ he muttered, wincing with the pain.

‘Sam! Don’t!’

Sam looked at Frodo quickly. ‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t tell me untruths. What really happened?’

‘Jolly happened,’ admitted Sam, reluctantly.

‘But why?’

Sam sighed. He wanted to just lie down in Frodo’s arms and for the world to go away. The pain seemed to be increasing. ‘I think we’d be better somewhere more private than the kitchen,’ he said carefully.

‘Oh. Can you walk? If I help you?’

Sam stood carefully and swayed. Frodo supported him with his arm, and Sam leant against him, breathing hard. ‘Put your arm around my shoulders, Sam. I can support you more easily like that,’ said Frodo. ‘There, is that better?’

Sam nodded. It was much better, and not just because Frodo was stopping him falling over.


Slowly they made their way out of the kitchen, and met Mrs. Cotton coming along the hallway. Sam lowered his head to hide the worst of the damage, although he realised the bruise would die in glorious colours for at least a week, and there would be no hiding it.

‘Save us! What’s happened,’ cried the farmer’s wife, rushing forward. Frodo came to a stop, and Sam studied the rug at his feet, wishing the pattern would stay put and not swirl in a sickening kaleidoscope of colour. He started to sweat.

‘He slipped I’m afraid, Mrs. Cotton,’ replied Frodo smoothly. ‘He must have banged his head on the range, and knocked himself out.

‘Just you wait there, Mr. Baggins. I’ll call my Jolly to come and help. You can’t manage all by yourself!’

‘No, no, there’s no need to disturb Jolly. I can manage. But if you’d be kind enough to fetch some warm water along to my room, I would appreciate it. He could do with a little cleaning up, I think.’

Back in their room, Frodo helped Sam onto the bed. He didn’t ask any more questions, but lay down next to Sam and wrapped his limbs around him, stroking him gently while he waited for Mrs. Cotton. Sam closed his eyes and relaxed in Frodo’s arms. The pain eased. He was glad to be laying there; it was worth being punched by Jolly just to feel so nurtured.

There was a tap on the door, and Frodo went to answer it. Mrs. Cotton had brought not only a bowl of hot water and a cloth, but also infusions of both witch-hazel and willow bark. Frodo thanked her politely, cut short her questions and shut the door, slipping the lock quietly home. Sam sat up to drink the bitter tasting willow bark remedy, and then turned his head for Frodo to clean away the blood. He winced a little, but Frodo was deft and quick, and it was soon over. The water in the bowl had turned an impressive red colour.

‘Don’t worry: it’s not as bad as it looks, Sam,’ said Frodo. He gently dabbed witch-hazel onto Sam’s bruised face, and Sam found the smell comforting, redolent of childhood memories, of bruises tended by his mother.

Frodo helped him undress, and then slipped his own clothes off. He gathered Sam in his arms, pulling sheet and blankets over them. ‘So what did happen, Sam?’

Sam nestled his undamaged cheek on Frodo’s shoulder, and spread his palm over Frodo’s chest. He sighed in resignation. He couldn’t think straight enough to prevaricate, and Frodo had been right: there should be no lies or pretence between them.

‘Jolly just hit me hard, he was mad at me and just let fly. Makes me feel really stupid, that does. After all we’ve been through, to be floored by Jolly.’ His voice was muffled by Frodo’s warm skin which he decided needed kissing. He pressed his lips into the hollow at the base of Frodo’s neck, and smiled as he felt an answering kiss on the top of his head.

Frodo lay his hand over Sam’s, his thumb moving in slow circles. ‘Do I get the impression you’re avoiding telling me why he should do such a thing,’ he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. ‘I thought you were friends with all the Cotton lads.’

‘Rosie asked about me and you,’ Sam muttered. ‘She was upset, and Jolly must have found out, because next thing is I’m seeing stars, and you’re asking me if I can hear you.’ Sam was fully aware of how many holes this explanation had in it. What he really wanted was to go to sleep in Frodo’s embrace and forget about it until tomorrow. That wasn’t about to happen though, because Frodo’s next question was the last one Sam wanted to hear.

‘But why should Rose be upset? What is it to her?’ Frodo sounded genuinely puzzled.

‘Well, before we went away, I was keeping company with her, as you might say.’

‘Sam! Why haven’t you mentioned this before?’

‘Because there didn’t seem no need. I never made an offer to her, and I didn’t expect her to still be waiting for me when I got back. She’s always had a heap of admirers, and I never could see what she saw in me, anyway. ‘

Frodo ignored this side issue. ‘And what? She was waiting? Even though she didn’t know if you were alive or dead?’

‘Mrs. Cotton said none of them could make her see sense, she was that sure I was coming back. But now I am back and it’s me as has changed. I’ve always been friends with Rosie, but I guess it’s hoping for too much that we still can be. I wouldn’t have hurt her deliberately for anything, but I never promised her anything or asked her to marry me. I was willing to go to Crickhollow seemingly, without saying anything except good-bye, so it’s not as though I misled her.’ Sam sighed; he knew he was justify himself to himself because somehow it seemed he must have misled Rosie, or why would she have waited, as Mrs. Cotton said she had.

‘And if we hadn’t had to go away, Sam? What would have happened?’ asked Frodo, looking at Sam gravely.

‘Well, I’m guessing me and Rosie would have fallen into wedlock and had a heap of babies, and I’d have never known any different. It doesn’t matter what would have happened, that’s all so much moonshine, begging your pardon. I thought I loved Rosie before we went away, but it was just comfortable, no more. I never loved her like I do you.’

‘I wouldn’t have accepted Farmer Cotton’s offer if I’d known, Sam.’

‘No more would I, if I’d known. I’m thinking it might be best if I go stay with the Gaffer, now New Row is finished, but I hate to be apart from you. I can’t think of nowhere closer than here for you to stop. So much of Hobbiton is just not liveable in, not in comfort anyway.’ This was true. The Grange was destroyed, as well as Bag End, and all the new, ugly housing had been pulled down. Many hobbits had been displaced, and there were no suitable lodgings to be had. ‘All the clearing out and levelling’s nearly finished at Bag End,’ continued Sam. ‘And I was thinking I needed to be much closer, once the real restoration work gets under way.’

‘Sam, you’re doing quite enough already. I’m sure the workers will do a good job. We can go to Crickhollow until Bag End is ready.’

Sam kissed Frodo again, glad that the subject under discussion was where they lived and not Rosie Cotton.

‘I can take you over there in the trap, if that’s what you’d like,’ said Sam, ‘but I need to be here. There’s a heap of tree planting and such to do, as well as Bag End to look out for. All the damage is in the Four Farthings, and the worst of it in Hobbiton and Bywater and round the Three Farthing Stone. Buckland’s too far away for me. I can’t say I won’t miss being able to hold you whenever I want, but I know Merry and Pippin will look after you. I’ll ride over every few days on Bill, and stop the night.’ He yawned.

‘No, Sam, I  need you nearer than that; I can’t imagine being so far away from you for so long. There’s a good two or three months of work to be done before Bag End is ready. And I wouldn’t dream of adding travelling back and forth to Buckland, on top of everything else you’re doing.’

Sam’s mind was sinking into a fog of drowsiness, feeling strangely content. Frodo was holding him and needed him near. ‘Stay at the Gaffer’s it is, then,’ he murmured sleepily. ‘He’ll be glad of some help to get his new bit of garden sorted. It’s naught but a sandpit at the moment.’ He closed his eyes and stopped fighting against oblivion. If Frodo made any reply, he never heard it.



Sam woke early the next morning and winced as he moved his head. His face was throbbing, and the eyelids of his right eye only part opened. Frodo must have freed his arm after Sam slept, and now he lay half curled against Sam’s chest. Sam moved with care - he had no wish to disturb Frodo - and when he accidentally touched the back of his head against the pillow, a sharp stab of pain reminded him why he had been sleeping on his side.

He raised himself on his left arm until he could see Frodo as clearly as the dim, grey light of morning allowed. He reached out and lifted a stray tendril of hair away from the sleeping face, and a knot tightened in his stomach. He wondered how he could bear not waking up to the sight of Frodo’s face next to his, not watching his eyes slowly open, not hearing his sleepy “Good morning, Sam.” If he slept away from him, how would he know if Frodo needed him? His panic yesterday had been foolish, Frodo loved him, but his sadness at Frodo’s loss of interest in a physical relationship was like a wound deep in his soul. The wound was all the deeper for being caused, not by him, but by a loss of ease in Frodo.


“All the colours have gone from the Shire. Not truly, I still see the grass is green, the sky is blue, but I look and everything is flat. Nothing has any depth. It’s as though I look at it all from a great distance. People talk to me, and it’s as though they are talking to someone else, far away or maybe long ago. I feel wrapped in soft cotton, and I must fight against it every time I move. It even floats in my mind, like the downy fluff of wych elm. Everything is such an effort. When you speak to me, when you hold me in your arms, it is as though the fog clears a little and the sun shines, but there is no stirring within me. Can you believe that I love you more than myself - that you are everything to me?”


Sam no longer doubted that Frodo loved him, but as he looked forward into the future, and thought of what might have been, he nearly choked on the sob that rose to his lips. He would not let Frodo see him cry, not about this. It was the one thing that would be sure to make Frodo feel even worse than he already did. That Frodo was miserable about causing him distress was both a sorrow and a comfort. He resolved, there and then, as he twined the stray lock of hair in his fingers and let the beauty that was Frodo fill him with light, that he would not demand more than Frodo could give. He knew he could do this, hard as it might be, because he had done it before. It was Frodo who had broken his resolve that time, showing Sam he was prepared to give everything. Was it too much to hope that one day Frodo would be healed and reach out again to Sam for more than comfort?

A memory of Frodo undressing him in Rivendell came unbidden to his mind and he let it take hold.


‘Stand still, Sam!’

‘But -’

‘No buts, Sam.’

‘May I -?’

‘No!’

‘But -’

Frodo raised an eyebrow, and Sam shuffled his feet. He felt self-conscious, standing in the middle of the room while Frodo walked around him, humming quietly to himself, and smirking. Yes, there was no doubt about it - he was smirking.

‘I feel like a tree you’ve got a mind to fell,’ complained Sam. He turned his head to try and watch Frodo, but Frodo had moved directly behind him. Suddenly, arms wrapped around his chest, and warm breath lightly brushed his ear.

‘I don’t think you can, Sam.’

‘Can’t what?’ answered Sam, his voice not quite as even as he would like. Just that wisp of air across his ear was enough to light a small flame of desire. The warm breath came again, fanning the small fire, and setting it smouldering. Sam groaned and leant his head back against Frodo’s shoulder.

‘Can’t stand still.’

‘For what?’

‘To let me undress you. To let me look at you. Have you any idea how much I enjoy looking at you, Sam?’

The low hum of Frodo’s voice, almost whispering in his ear, was sending shivers down Sam’s spine. Frodo ran a hand up Sam’s chest, sliding it under the open neck of his shirt and slowly up his neck. Sam could feel his own pulse pounding beneath Frodo’s fingers. The fingers rubbed up behind his ear, and then slid back down his jawline. Sam leaned his face into the touch, rubbing against it like a cat. He let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding with a long sigh.

Frodo’s palm eased up over his chin and down again, coming to rest with his thumb laid lightly over Sam’s lips. Sam opened his mouth and let his tongue and lower lip slide up the finger, tasting salt. As he reached the tip, the thumb bent to meet him, and he took the whole finger into his mouth, slowly drawing his lips up its length. He had forgotten what they were talking about. The thumb slipped from his mouth, and he reached his tongue down to its base to repeat the delight.

‘Do you?’

Sam tried to gather his thoughts. ‘Do I what?’ he mumbled, his tongue wrapping around its prisoner. Frodo laughed, and his other hand wandered downwards.

‘Do you have you any idea how much I enjoy looking at you, Sam?’

Sam let the thumb go and let Frodo’s shoulder take the weight of his head again. ‘I don’t know why you should, the Gaffer says I’m homely.’

‘And I say you are beautiful.’


Sam opened his eyes to look at Frodo; here was beauty, and not just of body. Beauty of mind, beauty of spirit. He had forgotten the throbbing of his head in the vividness of the memory, and another throbbing was calling attention to his frustrated needs. He leant down to kiss Frodo’s sleeping face, and then slipped from the bed. He pulled on his night shirt, and gathered his clothes from the chair, before quietly opening the door connecting to his ostensible room.

The room and bed were cold and broke his mood. He pulled the bedclothes around himself, and settled into the narrow space. He smiled at the idea Frodo should find him beautiful. He had tried looking in a mirror, but only plain Samwise Gamgee had stared back thoughtfully, and then laughed at him.

Gradually he worked to recaptured the mood of his memory.


‘So can you?’

Sam struggled to pin down what Frodo was talking about now, coherent thought hampered by what the downward drifting hand was doing.

‘Can I what? Oh, do that harder... aaahh... yes, yes! Like that.’

‘Can you stand still?’ The laughter was still there.

‘When you’re doing... aaahh... that? No, of course I can’t.’ Sam’s hips ground back against Frodo to prove the point.

‘But if I wasn’t touching you.’ There was a husky catch in Frodo’s voice as Sam’s actions had their own reactions. ‘After I’ve undressed you, I mean.’

‘That doesn’t sound very much fun,’ Sam complained, feeling the hardness of Frodo against his back as he rubbed.

‘I’m serious, Sam. Would you do it for me, my love?’

Sam turned his head to kiss Frodo on the cheek, moving on to whisper in his ear, ‘You know I’d do anything for you.’

‘Then tomorrow you can bring me the moon and the stars.’

‘Now you’re teasing me, master.’

‘And now you’re teasing me, Sam. But there are some things you can’t do for me.’ Frodo released Sam and came round to stand in front of him, laughter still dancing in his eyes. He raised his hands to Sam’s shirt, reaching for the top button, and Sam stilled. He let his hands hang at his side and moved his feet apart. He wasn’t quite sure how long he was going to be asked to stand there. Not long he hoped, because there were things he wanted to do to Frodo that needed a lot of - well, movement.

He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to look, so he looked at Frodo’s hands as they slowly slipped each shirt button from its hole. There was a grace about his movements, even mutilated as his right hand was, that Sam could never hope to achieve. He realised it was the first time in many weeks that he had noticed, really noticed, the loss of the third finger. The scarred gap had become so much a part of who Frodo was, that he had ceased to be brought up short by the sight.

Frodo freed the last button and ran his hands down the open edges of Sam’s shirt, so they drifted apart exposing Sam’s chest. He laid his cheek against Sam’s bare skin and inhaled deeply. Sam had to fight down the impulse to run his fingers through Frodo’s hair and kiss his bowed head. He clenched his hands and cleared his throat. How could that simple want make him weak in the knees. Best to close his eyes he decided.


Sam was warmer now, curled on his side. He reached under the bed clothes and hitched up his night shirt, running his hand up his thigh, over his belly and down again to where his erect flesh rose to meet his palm as he tensed his muscles. Oh, that felt so good. Almost lazily, he let his hand slide down and back, rolling the loose skin away.


He could feel Frodo teasing his shirt tails from his breeches, inch by slow inch, and the muscles of his belly fluttered, outside of his control. There - the shirt was free. Frodo’s hands were running slowly up his chest, up and over his shoulders. They swept the soft cotton with them, rolling the shirt away from Sam’s shoulders and letting it fall. The cloth caught at his wrists, and Frodo eased the cuffs free and let the shirt drop to the floor.

The delicate hands came together at his waist and slowly unbuttoned his breeches; Sam trembled as they brushed his bare skin. He swallowed as Frodo freed the last button, and slowly drew breeches and drawers down Sam’s legs, sliding to his knees as he did so. Sam felt his flesh, swollen with want, released from its prison, and he waited desperately for Frodo to take him in his mouth, or caress him with his hands...


Sam ran his hand over the swollen tip, feeling a bead of moisture, wet and slick, beneath his palm. He rubbed around the soft velvety surface, and ran his hand down again, letting the sensation build slowly.


He opened his eyes when nothing happened, and found Frodo had moved away and was standing just out of reach, looking at him. His flushed lips were slightly parted, and as Sam watched, he ran his tongue over his upper lip. Sam felt his own lips tingle at the sight.

Frodo walked slowly around him again and stopped out of view behind him. Sam could hear his lover’s breathing deepening; looking down he watched as his own erect flesh jerked outside his conscious control.

‘This is a lovely view,’ said Frodo huskily. ‘I love the feel of the muscles over your shoulders, I love running my hands down your back. I love closing my eyes and running my hands on down, and up over the swelling of your buttocks. If you are standing in my arms you press in hard against me, and I feel your muscles clench beneath my hands. And if you are lying face down on the bed you raise your body beneath my touch, inviting me to slide my hand between your legs. I wish I could touch you now.’

‘Touch me, please.’

‘Not yet, my love. I want to look at you, remember?’

Sam bit his lip and and closed his eyes again. When he opened them Frodo was standing in front of him again. He watched as Frodo’s hands drifted up to his neck, and slowly, so slowly, worked his own top button loose.


Sam let his free hand run over his chest and belly, brushing his nipples in passing, and then sliding his palm down over his hip and onto his inner thigh. He ran each hand in turn up his shaft and moaned into his pillow.


Frodo paused and smiled lazily at Sam, and then the second button was falling open, exposing the base of Frodo’s neck. A small whimper escaped Sam. He wanted to bury his face against that creamy skin; feeling, and smelling, and tasting Frodo until his senses were reeling.

Frodo slowly opened buttons, taking his time over each one, pausing to run his hands down the opening edges, widening the gap. Sam swallowed and wished the Elvish-made tunic didn’t have so many fastenings. It was tighter fitting than Frodo’s normal clothes and hugged his slim hips. Sam wondered how clothes could be designed whose sole purpose seemed to be to reveal, rather than conceal. The cloth seemed to draw his attention to the erect nipples beneath. A glimpse of the tight dark flesh, as the tunic edges parted over Frodo’s chest, set Sam’s heart pounding. He couldn’t look away as the hands slid so slowly from button to button, until at last all were freed, and the tunic fell open. The cloth of the exposed breeches bulged invitingly, and Sam longed to take Frodo in his arms and slide down, trailing kisses to where a soft line of downy hair disappeared from view...


Sam rolled his shaft between his two palms. He circled his right hand around and stroked up and down, a few rapid strokes to bring himself to a higher level of arousal. His hips thrust forward to meet his hand as he stroked down. He slowed the pace again; he had no wish to hurry over this memory.


Frodo’s hands slid over his chest and abdomen, following the line of Sam’s gaze, and then the breeches fell away in a whisper of linen. The open tunic part revealed, part concealed, what lay beneath.

Sam exhaled slowly. His whole body was tingling now, and a fire was spreading outwards from his loins and belly. Frodo raised his fingers to his mouth and ran them over his parted lips. He held his hand, palm outwards, towards Sam, and Sam felt his own lips become fuller and more sensitive as though they had really been stroked.

‘Frodo, kiss me,’ he whispered, his voice husky with desire. Frodo held Sam’s gaze, his eyes dark and smouldering.

‘Your face is beautiful, Sam,’ he said quietly, and he cupped his outstretched hand as though he were stroking Sam’s face. Sam leaned into the imaginary touch and could almost feel the soft pressure of delicate fingers. He closed his eyes.

‘Sam,’ Frodo said gently, and his very voice was a caress that made Sam moan with longing. ‘Sam, open your eyes.’ Sam obediently opened his eyes, and Frodo smiled.

‘I love your eyes, Sam. They are so warm and brown. When I look at you I feel as though I’m falling, falling, and I’ll never find myself again. I love the way they shine when you smile, and how they crinkle up at the edges. Did you know your smiles start at your eyes? Yes! Like that! And I love your mouth when you smile, the way it lifts on one side first in a little half smile... like that! And then your whole face lights up my day and chases the dark shadows away.’

‘Frodo, stop talking nonsense and let me kiss you!’

Frodo moved away and sat crossed legged on the bed, his tunic falling open around his knees. He looked at Sam without speaking. Sam could see clearly now that Frodo, for all his nonchalance, was as aroused as he was.

‘I love the breadth of your chest, Sam, and the soft cover of hair. I think you must have some Stoor blood in you.’

‘Don’t like water,’ said Sam, rather shortly because he wanted the wretched Fallohide to admire his chest with his hands, not with words.

‘I love the way your muscles move when you lean over me, or lay back with your arms above your head. I love the way the hair leads down in a soft V, drawing me down to where you rise to meet me.’


Sam thrust his hips forward again, into the encircling hand, and slowly quickened the rhythm. His breathing had become fast and shallow, and he controlled it, slowing and deepening the rise and fall of his chest. His other hand clutched convulsively at the bedcovers, clenching and releasing, as his arousal increased.

Suddenly the bed moved beneath him, and the covers lifted away. A body wrapped around him, conforming to his back. He gasped in surprise, half turning his head, and Frodo pressed a kiss against his neck. A warm hand slipped over Sam’s, and the two hands slid together, up and back.

‘Sam,’ Frodo murmured in his ear, ‘my love, you don’t have to go away to do this. Go back into your imagination and let me follow your lead.’


‘I could look at you for hours, Sam.’

‘Hours?’ Sam’s voice came out as almost a squeak. ‘I’m going to come, right here, long before that!’

‘Only teasing, Sam. I’ll wait till you’re asleep and watch you for hours then.’

Frodo slid his hand down his chest again and between his legs and... Sam groaned. This was not fair. ‘Frodo, don’t! I wasn’t joking. You’re going to make me come without either of us laying a finger on me.’ His knees were shaking, and Frodo was right. He couldn’t stand still while Frodo looked at him, because any moment now his legs were going to collapse.

Frodo eased himself up, and still stroking himself, came to stand in front of Sam.


Frodo no longer needed Sam’s hand to guide him in the rhythm he wanted, Sam’s thrusting hips and gasping cries were telling him all he needed to know. Sam dug his fingers into Frodo’s hip.


Frodo slowly slid to his knees and took Sam into his mouth. Sam cried out loud. He came so hard, he really did collapse, his knees buckling so that Frodo had to release him. His hands dug into Frodo’s hair as he spilled his seed over him. As the after shocks subsided, leaving him weak and gasping, he felt warm stickiness over his belly; they had come together. They clung to each other, and Frodo’s mouth closed over his.


With a last thrust Sam let go in shuddering gasps as he was hit by wave after wave of longed for release. Frodo stroked him and kissed him, and Sam went limp in his arms. They were so cramped in the small bed that there wasn’t even room for Sam to roll over. He pressed back against Frodo, but there was only soft yielding flesh. Fresh and clear in Sam’s mind was Frodo’s face as he walked towards him in Rivendell, stroking his own hard erection, pushing Sam to the limits of arousal without even touching him. A tear formed and spilled over his lid to trickle a path to the corner of his lip, but he was crying for Frodo and not for himself.

Frodo eased away from Sam and came to kneel by his face. He stroked Sam and kissed him, then wiped the tear away. Brushing the hair out of Sam’s eyes, he looked with concern at the swollen lids, but didn’t comment.

‘If you go away again, I’ll know you want to do this on your own, my love,’ he said. ‘But if you would like to share with me, then stay in our bed. Come back now, and lie with me.’

Sam took a deep breath and smiled shakily at Frodo. The double orgasm, in imagination and reality, had left him weak and trembling, and his legs shook slightly as he made his way back to the larger bed.

‘How do you feel this morning?’ asked Frodo, as Sam curled into his arms.

‘Much better.’ Sam smiled, knowing he wasn’t answering the question being asked. Frodo smiled back, realising what Sam meant.

‘But what about your eye and head? How are they?’ he asked.

‘I won’t deny they hurt, but they’re not too bad. I’ll just lay here with you a little longer, and then I need to be getting up and getting going. I promised the Gaffer I’d be over early to help him move in. I can just imagine what he’s going to say about my new found beauty. It could’ve been worse, though; Jolly could’ve broken my nose, and then not even you would be able to call me beautiful.’

Frodo wrapped his arms tighter around Sam, and Sam pressed his face against the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He could feel sleep drifting over him. With regret he levered himself out of Frodo’s arms.

‘It’s no good; I have to get up,’ he said with a sigh. Frodo lay back, and Sam knelt over him, stroking his face. ‘You do like me caressing you, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘Even though you don’t find it arousing?’

‘Sam, I love you touching me; it lifts the fog, and then I can enjoy touching you, but it’s hard sometimes for me to... well, make the first move. It’s not just that, either. I was worrying about not being able to love you as you wanted.’ He reached up and ran his hand through Sam’s hair and tucked it behind Sam’s ear. Sam leant forward and kissed him.

‘When will I see you? If I’m staying at the Gaffer’s? Will you come to me?’

‘Every day, Sam. I’ll come and see how Bag End is coming on.’

‘Good. The filth is out now. You can watch your home come alive again.’

‘Our home, Sam. Don’t forget it!’



Sam made his way to the kitchen almost singing. Even so he was relieved to find only Mrs. Cotton there. She looked at him, and her eyes widened.

‘Samwise Gamgee! May Mr. Baggins be forgiven. Slipped and fell, indeed! And I know for a fact you were fine when you came in last night. Who gave you that shiner?’ Even as she spoke she was bustling around to get more witch-hazel and a compress of soft cotton. ‘Now hold that to your eye. No wonder you didn’t want to show me your face last night. Which one of my lads did that? And more to the point, why? Now don’t go shuffling your feet and putting on your stubborn face, Samwise. One thing is sure: I’ll find out all about it.’

‘I’m sorry, Mother Cotton. It just won’t be from me,’ said Sam, and Mrs. Cotton sighed with exasperation.

‘I’m going to help the Gaffer move in this morning,’ Sam said, ‘and then I’ll be back to collect my things and stop with him for a while.’

Mrs. Cotton made a tsk noise and shook her head. ‘Well that sounds bad, don’t it,’ she said. ‘Driven out of this house, and over what I’d like to know. But I can see you’re not going to be the one to tell me. I won’t press you lad, but I will take pity on you; though I don’t know if you deserve it, not knowing the rights of it an’ all. You go sit outside, and I’ll bring you some tea and a bite o’ food, and maybe save you being the centre of fun at breakfast. There’s a nip in the air, for all the sun is shining, but I don’t doubt you’ll be more comfortable there than at the table.’

Sam kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Mother,’ he said gratefully. It was going to be a bad enough day anyway. The Gaffer would have his say, and the workmen would be very ribald at his expense. He was grateful to be spared the embarrassment of sitting in Rosie’s and Jolly’s company.

He went out and made his way to the kitchen garden. A bench had been leant against the wall to keep the seat from getting sodden; he set it upright and sat in the pale morning sun. Wrapping his cloak around him, he lit his pipe and inhaled deeply. He hoped Rosie was going to be discreet; she had always been a good lass with a secret, but there was no reason she should look at her new found knowledge in that light. He leaned back, applied the compress again and sighed. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of loving and lying with Frodo, it was just that there was so much gossip tangled around his dear love already, and he couldn’t bear to be the cause of more.

Sam had been through too much to worry about his “place.” His place was with Frodo, and there was an end to it. But if Frodo was shunned because he was living with his servant, then it wouldn’t help Sam’s efforts to bring Frodo out of himself.

The sound of footsteps on the path made him look up. He groaned. This was not want he wanted, or needed, right now. Rosie was coming towards him carrying a tray - and she was accompanied by Jolly.