The Gamgees were nothing if not practical. It was a source of some pride for them. And this, this mooning over something he could never have, was not practical or anything like it. Nor was watching those lovely eyes grow distant over a book or a tale, or over nothing at all, and wanting to say Take me with you. Whatever visions you're having, let me see them through your eyes. Bad enough, or so said the Gaffer, that he so wanted to see elves just once before he died. That that longing should spread to encompass a hobbit-lad who was more Brandybuck and fox-fey Took than staid, placid Baggins seemed to be courting disaster.

Right. You've spent quite enough time on dreams, Samwise Gamgee, and it ain't fair to put all the weight of them on Mr. Frodo. There's no sense in mooning after something you can't have, and the sooner you get that through your skull the better it'll be for the both of you.

"Up and at 'em, Sam," Jolly said, poking Sam in the shoulder. "Time to eat and get up on that barn."

"Coming," Sam said, rather happy at the prospect of having good solid work under his hands and no time to think.

Well, he wasn't quite sure he was ready to go that far; but he'd rested his eyes plenty on Tom's pretty sister and her friends, and flirted with them a bit more than he had the day before, and found it in his heart not to fault any of them for being light-haired and brown from the sun. It wasn't Mr. Frodo's fault that Sam had cast his eyes where he had no business, and the least Sam could do was take care that Mr. Frodo never found out where those eyes had been cast at all.

Giving up that last, stubborn, foolish thread of hope was easier said than done; but Sam had schooled himself to harder lessons than this in his time, and the longer he set himself not to think of Frodo in that particular way, the easier it would get. The hope wasn't real or right, and wasn't fair to Mr. Frodo besides, and Sam would have given up more than a slender breath of hope to keep hurt away from his master. He told himself these things all through supper, and into the evening when his thoughts began to wander, and had no dreams at all that night.

On the sixth day, repairs done, he shouldered his pack and made ready to head back to Hobbiton, and told himself that the unease he felt came only from leaving the Gaffer behind.

"You're sure you'll not have me stay on?" Sam asked for the fourth time as the Gaffer walked him out to the borders of the Cottons' fields.

"No, lad, I'll be fine," the Gaffer said in exasperation. "What's wrong wi' thee, Sam? You've been skittish the whole time we've been here. Is it the Cotton lass for true, then?"

"No, Da," Sam answered a bit irritably. "It's just... well, I don't know what it is, in plain truth. I want to get home and see that the girls are all right, and that naught's happened to Bag End's garden since I've been gone, but I'd not leave you here to walk back all of your own neither."

The Gaffer chuckled. "Poor Sam, too many things to care for and you broody as a mother hen anyway. Tom'll come back with me. You know he takes any chance he can to see your sister. And the girls can take care of themselves; they take care of you and me well enough. If you're bent on worrying, best you worry that young Mr. Frodo's gone for a walk with his nose in a book and took no note of where he was going 'till he was halfway to Bree and lost as a wasted day."

"Oh, Da," Sam groaned.

The chuckle became an outright laugh and the Gaffer clapped him on the shoulder. "I was only teasing, lad. Even Mr. Frodo's got more sense than... well, I'm sure naught's happened to him while you were gone, anyway. I'll turn back here, then, and see you again in a few days. Kiss your sisters for me."

"I will," Sam promised, and set out for home.

Sam stopped and leaned on his walking stick, closed his eyes, and then opened them again reluctantly.

Frodo was wandering aimlessly off the path, hands stuffed carelessly into his pockets, feet kicking up leaves that glowed with every color of the harvest, and the breeze stirred the slanting light in his dark hair into tiny golden sparks. He was looking down at the ground as he walked, frowning thoughtfully, a thousand miles away from this still wood and the sunlight that spilled over him in rich dappled beams. Sam stood for a minute watching, as still as if he were watching one of the fawns that from time to time grew bold enough to wander into Bag End's back gardens, and wondered which of them had chosen this path on purpose.

"Mr. Frodo," he called when Frodo was close enough. Frodo looked up, startled, and his face lit with the same shy pleasure that had so unexpectedly greeted Sam's acceptance of his dinner invitation.

"Sam. You're home." Frodo began making his way toward Sam, stepping over tree roots and skirting underbrush; and just for a moment Sam wondered what would happen if he slipped an arm around Frodo's waist, pulled him close, and whispered Aye, love, that I am into that soft tumble of hair. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. "What's become of the Gaffer? Have the Cottons decided to keep him?"

"He's staying on a few days to help the Missus lay out her kitchen garden."

"That's kind of him."

"Aye, well, the Cottons make a good home brew too."

Frodo laughed and turned toward Hobbiton. Sam began walking again, keeping pace with him. "It's been terribly boring here. You hear more of what goes on than I do, perhaps that's why. You haven't been here to tell me things."

Sam looked a bit worriedly at Frodo. "You did go to the market, didn't you? Because I know before I left you were mighty low on -"

"Yes, of course I did, I was out of tea. But tell me how things are with the Cottons."

Sam told him, and more gossip besides, and by the time he wound down they were at the front gate of Bag End. Frodo placed his hand on the gate and turned to Sam, suddenly looking hesitant.

"Would you... care to have dinner with me again, Sam? If you're too tired I'll understand, or if your sisters would like..." His voice was oddly paced, as if it was an effort to get the words out.

Sam frowned. "Don't feel like you have to invite me, sir. I'll be -"

"No, I - I want to. I just don't want you to feel that..."

"That what, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked after a moment.

"Well, that you have to, or even that you ought to. I just... I enjoyed having you over last time, and I've missed you." Frodo looked away toward the setting sun, loose curls blown into his face by the breeze.

Bless him, he really does get lonely here all by himself, Sam thought painfully, and spared a stern thought for Mr. Bilbo. "I'd like that, sir. Give me an hour or so to get washed up and see to anything that needs seeing to, and then I'll be back."

Frodo's lips parted and an odd look flashed over his face. His breath left him in a soft sigh, and he looked back at Sam and smiled. "All right. I'll see you then."

Wishing that he knew what in the world was going on, Sam nodded politely to Frodo and set out for home.

Marigold frowned dubiously; there was no anger in her eyes, but there was worry, which rather bewildered Sam. "Sam, I just don't want you to get all used to being treated like a guest at Bag End and then be hurt when summat happens to remind you that you ain't one."

"I won't get used to it. It's a whim of Mr. Frodo's, is all. He'll stop sooner or later, and things'll go back to the way they were."

"You look so sad when you say that," Marigold said quietly.

Sam closed his eyes and took a huge swallow of tea, and for a moment was sorely tempted to say All right. I love him. Was that what you wanted to hear? And that would result in Mari crying her eyes out, and May and Daisy all in a dither with wanting to know what was going on, and eventually the Gaffer would hear about it; and Sam would have no peace from that moment until he was sent to the Northfarthing to live with Hal, and maybe not even then. "Mari, he's lonely right now, is all. In a month or so he'll go to spend the holidays with his kin in Buckland, and he'll come back rememberin' why he lives here and not there, and then he'll be fine. Ain't I allowed to feel bad for him?"

"Aye, so long as that's all you feel," Mari said bluntly.

Sam froze for a moment, then slowly draped the towel over the back of a wooden chair.

"I ain't said nothing to the Gaffer, and I won't neither," she went on. "He thinks you just set a world of store by Mr. Frodo. But Da's no lass and I am, and I know when a lad's so arse over ankles in love -"

"Marigold Gamgee, may you be forgiven!"

" - that he ain't able to use what mind he had to begin with, and never you mind what language I use, Samwise. I don't want to have to figure out how to keep May and Daisy away from Mr. Frodo's sheets come washday. Just remember you've got no business rumpling the sheets of a bed you ought to be making."

"Mari -" Sam looked at his sister's expression and sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. "It ain't like that. He wouldn't have me and you know it."

Marigold echoed his sigh and reached up to comb her fingers through his nearly-dry hair. "I don't like to see you pining, is all, Sam. I can think of half a dozen lasses off the top of my head who'd be thrilled to death if you was to court them. Keep your eyes on your own part of the Row and don't look for your first tumble up at the top of the Hill and you'll not go wrong."

Sam pulled on his coat and leaned to kiss his sister. "I don't know how long I'll be. You know Mr. Frodo, up so late and loses track of time so easy. Don't wait up too long."

"You mind what I said, Sam."

"I will," he called over his shoulder, and made his escape out into the evening air.

Frodo was in the kitchen, up to his elbows in dough, a smear of flour across his nose that made Sam's fingers itch to wipe it away. He smiled as Sam entered. "I'm glad you could come, Sam. I thought your sisters might have kept you after all."

Sam winced a little at the thought of Marigold. "No, sir. They're all fine, and naught that needs doing that can't wait until tomorrow."

At his wince, Frodo, who no matter how much of him lived in other worlds was sharper in this one than Sam was really comfortable with, shot him a concerned look. "Did they... I mean -"

"Mari's training on to be a Gammer, sir, naught more than that. What can I help with?"

Frodo lifted the back of his hand to his nose, rubbing at the streak of flour and making it worse. White powder drifted down to settle on the front of his open weskit. "You can turn the hens and baste them, if you'd like."

Sam lit the table lamps and saw to the hens; fine big ones, turning golden brown on the spit. He couldn't decide whether to be sorry that Frodo had gone to all this trouble or glad of it. At least it meant that his master would have a decent meal, which was more than he probably had when there was no one there to cook for.

"Mind your head, Sam," Frodo said from behind him, catching up a towel to open the iron door of the oven just above the fireplace. "These rolls should be done in about ten minutes. Would you like some wine while we're waiting for dinner?"

The door closed again and Sam straightened. "Thank you, sir, that'd be -" he began, then stopped in exasperation. "Bless you, Mr. Frodo, you get more covered in flour every time I look at you. Come here."

Frodo laughed and stepped forward as Sam pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket. "It does make a bit of a mess, doesn't it?"

"Not if you're careful, it don't," Sam replied, steadying Frodo's face with one hand and dusting it off with the other.

"It's only flour, Sam. It comes off," Frodo said softly, with not quite enough laughter in his voice to make Sam think his master was laughing at him.

Sam glanced up at him, and his hand faltered a bit. Oh, half Frodo's face still to clean and he couldn't move away yet - but those eyes danced in the firelight, and skin smoother than good rich cream was warming under his hands, and Frodo's small smile was warm and fond and inviting. Sam tried to unobtrusively take a deep breath and returned to his tidying - Frodo's face was quickly dealt with but there was a streak of white dust in his hair, too, and save us, had he run his fingers through it while they were coated with flour? Probably, it was like him to do something like that and not notice.

Frodo's hair was soft and warm between his fingers, still a tiny bit damp from the bath, and Sam's fingers drew the smell of rosemary and late roses behind them like the breeze from the garden.

"Am I presentable now?" Frodo teased gently as Sam lowered his hands and moved away.

"Yessir. I'll get the wine, shall I, while you keep an eye on dinner?"

"All right. Get the 1386 Woodhall Gold, that was a good year."

"Yes, sir," Sam repeated, and made for the cellars.

By the time he emerged, dusty and with an itchy nose, Frodo had set out wineglasses and a bowl of batter-dipped mushrooms and seated himself at the table. His face brightened a little when Sam came into the room - had that soft glow of pleasure always been there, and Sam had just somehow managed to miss it? No, he decided; not likely that he'd miss anything that beautiful, not as long as he'd watched everything that passed in Frodo's face. If he were one of the Cotton lads...

Well, he ain't. He's the Master. Now mind what you promised yourself and open the wine, he instructed himself firmly; and tried to forget standing in the cellar with the feel of Frodo's presence all through him, lifting his fingertips for the faint, sweet smell of Frodo's hair.

"Sam?" Frodo said from behind him, mildly puzzled, and Sam realized that he had been staring down into the drawer at the corkscrew for who knew how long.

He smiled and turned back to the table. "Just woolgathering a bit, sir."

"If you're tired, we can have dinner another time."

And over the years Sam had trained his ear to every tune that came through Frodo's voice as well; and this one was a new one, and not one Sam could read. Frodo was holding himself very still, waiting for Sam's answer.

"No, I'm not tired at all." He twisted the cork out of the wine and poured Frodo's glass half full. "I was just... well, I was thinking of the story you told the last time I was here, and that island that sank under the ocean. It was a sad story, that."

"So many of the old stories are sad," Frodo answered quietly, reaching for his wine.

"It's funny, that is," Sam said thoughtfully. "When things are good and end happy nobody thinks to write them down - or the Big People don't think to, anyway. Maybe it's only bad things as need to be written down, so they can be made sense of."

Frodo tilted his head and looked at Sam with a small smile on his face. "Do you know, Sam, I think you learned more from Bilbo and his stories than I did."

Sam felt himself color. "Course I didn't, sir, you being as smart as you are and knowing more about books than I ever will -" To cover his embarrassment he reached for a mushroom, and found too late that Frodo had done the same. Just for a moment their hands tangled softly in the bowl, fingertips weaving and brushing; and then Frodo pulled his hand back and popped a mushroom into his mouth, and had that tiny, deft flick of his fingers pushed the biggest mushroom of the lot right under Sam's hand where he had no choice but to take it? Yes, Sam decided, looking at the impish glint in Frodo's eyes; he had done exactly that, and avenged himself well and subtly for Sam's compliment. Accepting his defeat with good grace, Sam bit into the mushroom and reached for the wine.

"Still and all, though, you're quite right," Frodo said thoughtfully, swirling his wine idly in the glass. "And maybe more... maybe it's a matter of wanting to hold happiness to us, to keep it safe and hidden so that nothing can ever touch or tarnish it. Perhaps we hoard our happiness as a dragon hoards gold, because there is nothing more precious..." His eyes lifted to Sam's, blue and endless as the midsummer sky, and the growing shadows filled the soft curve of his throat with shimmering firelight.

Sam tore his eyes away from Frodo's and cast about for something to say; it was that or burst into tears from the sheer unfairness of it all. "Or maybe happiness is too small and quiet to make a good story," he managed after he'd cleared his throat. "Look at you and me, now, here with this nice fire and good food cooking, talking of stories with a fine dinner ahead and maybe a pipe after - what kind of tale would we make, eh? I can't see little ones clustering 'round their mam's knee and saying 'Tell us the story of how Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee had hens for dinner, Ma, that'un's my favorite.'"

Frodo burst out laughing, making Sam feel ridiculously pleased with himself. "Yes, you're quite right. If we were having roast oliphaunt, now, roasted over a huge pit in the Party Field, it might be another matter - but hens, alas, are irredeemably boring." He glanced up at Sam, sobering a little, and when he spoke again his voice held that same odd note that Sam had been unable to read before. "Are you happy here, Sam?"

"Yessir," Sam whispered tightly, unable to say more or to look at Frodo. The question had drawn too many sudden, vivid images of what would have made Sam even happier - the sibilant whisper of linen gliding over Frodo's skin and pooling on the floor at their feet, paths of starlight on that milk-pale body for Sam to follow with breath and fingers and reverent mouth, leading him far away from the Shire's stiff custom-bound borders to a place where the sun rose only to warm white starlight with a fine golden mist like a lover's heated touch.

He wondered suddenly if his gentle, quiet Frodo would make love in silence, or if that beautiful voice would surround a lover in whispers, moans, building to urgent cries as those elegant ink-smudged fingers dug into shoulders or back or -

The loud snap of a log in the fire made him jump half out of his skin, bringing him so sharply back to reality that he gave a strangled gasp. Frodo was looking at him in mild alarm.

"Sam? Are you all right?"

"Yes, Mr. Frodo," he answered, forcing his fingers to relax around the stem of his wineglass before it snapped. "Had a crick in my neck there for a minute. It's gone now."

"Are you sure? I can -"

"No, no, sir, it's fine," Sam said hastily. He'd been a fool and let his thoughts wander where they had no business, and if Frodo set hands on him at that moment then within two minutes either Sam would be unceremoniously sacked or the kitchen table would be put to uses no decent hobbit would put it to.

"All right, but the offer's open in case it should come back. If I'm not mistaken, the rolls should be done by now - and the hens too, probably. If you'll fetch the rolls and lay out the butter I'll tend to the hens and sauce."

"I'll do that, sir," Sam answered, relieved at the excuse to spend a minute or two in the cold larder.

By the time he had finished setting out the rolls, fetching the butter, calling himself every hard name in his Gaffer's large repertoire, and thinking hard about ice-cold baths, Frodo had carved the hens, doused them in redcurrant sauce, and set out the side dishes. "I mixed a bit of nutmeg in with the butter, sir," he said as he sat back down.

"Ah, lovely. Thank you, Sam," Frodo answered, sliding back into his seat across the table. For just a moment his foot brushed against Sam's ankle, a thatch of curls as fine and soft as the hair on his head sliding like new-carded flax against Sam's skin, and Sam took a quick gulp of his wine and hoped that he wasn't as beet-red as he felt.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Frodo said as he passed the salt to Sam, light brush of fingers against Sam's own. "I had a visit from Lotho and Lobelia while you were gone."

Sam winced. "And me not here to tell them you weren't at home."

Frodo laughed. "Worse yet - they caught me outside, so I couldn't avoid them. Lobelia spent the whole time craning her neck to see over my shoulder into Bag End's windows and lecturing me on what an awful excuse for a Baggins I am, having my gardener to dinner but not my own kith and kin. I had a nasty headache and hadn't slept well the night before, and I'm afraid I lost my temper and told her outright that you were better company."

Sam choked and reached for his wine. "Well, I could hardly be worse," he managed after a couple of gulps.

"You're better company than anyone else I know," Frodo said quietly.

It was all Sam could do not to squeeze his eyes shut in pain. Oh, don't. Don't say things like that, when you don't know how much it's taking for me not to just reach across the table and -

"At any rate, Lobelia marched off in a huff, 'accidentally' whacking my shin so hard with her umbrella that I still have a bruise, and Lotho leaned over the fencepost and informed me that his dearest wish was to see me turned out of Bag End with nothing more than the clothes on my back." Frodo's voice was full of laughter, but Sam found himself clenching his teeth.

"You know, Mr. Frodo, meaning no disrespect to you, and them being your kin and all, but one of these days I'm going to catch that Lotho when he don't have all his cronies around him and plant him head-first in the ground like a radish." Especially since he had his suspicions as to what Lotho would actually like to see Frodo wearing, and it was considerably less than the clothes that were on his back at the moment.

"Sam." Frodo reached out and took Sam's hand, stilling his breath in his throat, and which of them was trembling Sam couldn't quite tell. "I've upset you. I'm sorry. Maybe you had to be there, but it truly was funny."

Sam forced himself to meet Frodo's eyes, and couldn't stop his hand from tightening around Frodo's. "He shouldn't ought to talk to you like that, is all, an' you worth ten of him and that..." Just in time, he bit back a word he'd as soon not say at Frodo's table.

Frodo's eyes softened. "Thank you, Sam," he said quietly, and his thumb moved just a little on Sam's fingers.

Sam cleared his throat and looked back from their joined hands to Frodo - and was that soft heat in Frodo's eyes only a trick of light and shadow and wishful thinking? So easy to find out, his hand and Frodo's were clasped already, more this time than the light touch of fingertip to palm; if he were to lift their hands the short distance to his mouth -

Frodo's hand slipped out of his, and Sam caught himself just in time to keep from catching it back.

"Eat, Sam," Frodo urged, turning his attention to his own plate. "I don't mean to be nattering away until the food's about to get cold."

"Ah, but I like to hear you talk, sir," Sam blurted, then gave himself a mental kick.

"I shall have to remember that," Frodo answered, and there was a note in his voice like rich, dark velvet that nearly made Sam's heart stop in his chest. By the time he looked up, however, Frodo was smiling amiably - and, curse it, innocently - at him.

Oh, stop it. It's one thing for you to want him, as fine and lovely as he is, but the gentry don't do aught more than tumble their servants, and that rarely. What would he want with you, Sam Gamgee, when he could have someone just as fine as he is?

It was entirely possible that Sam was going to go stark off his head if he didn't find a distraction somewhere. "Aye, well, maybe you could tell another story, then."

Frodo tilted his head thoughtfully and swallowed a forkful of mashed potatoes. "Have you heard the story about how Tuor came to Gondolin?"

"Gondolin..." Sam frowned and rummaged through the rather chaotic storehouse of his memory. "That was the hidden Elf kingdom, weren't it? Mr. Bilbo mentioned it once but he never said what happened to it, or if it stands to this day."

"He told me once that it fell, but he didn't say how. I don't know if he knew."

"I never did hear that story, no, sir. But I'd surely like to."

"It's a good tale. You'll like it, I think."

Sam did. A Man raised by Elves, neither fish nor fowl; oh, Sam knew how that felt, right enough, sitting here in the firelight with his master as he really oughtn't to be in the first place and wanting things of him - a cuddle, a tumble, love - that no servant had any business wanting of the Master.

Love. It was the first time he'd so much as let himself think it - that he wanted Frodo to love him too. But that was well and truly beyond a pipe dream, and he would have taken a tumble and been glad of it even if it broke his heart.

Still and all, he thought dubiously as Frodo's soft voice filled the kitchen; just because he knew how Tuor felt didn't mean it wasn't daft to go traipsing all over the world following after streams and birds like they knew what they were doing.

When he made austere mention of that daftness, Frodo laughed. "Yes, but it served him well in the end. He followed the swans to a ruined citadel by the sea; and there, in the Great Hall, hung on the wall, he found a sword and armor of wonderful quality, and a shield blazoned with a swan's wing. So he took that for a sign, and took the armor too, and when he came out of the Hall the swans each plucked out a feather and gave it to him, then bowed and flew away."

Sam looked dubiously at Frodo. "What'd he do with seven swan feathers, then?"

Frodo speared a carrot slice and ate it, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a vain attempt to suppress a smile. "Stuck them in his helm, I'm afraid."

Sam burst out laughing.

After a moment's more struggle Frodo joined him, and the two of them laughed helplessly until Frodo finally regained breath enough to choke out, "Well, I said he was a great hero. I didn't say he had much of a fashion sense."

"Aye, you didn't at that," Sam answered, wiping his eyes. "Ah, what a sight that must have been. What happened next, then?"

Frodo settled back in his chair, picked up his wine, and began to talk again; through a visitation from the Lord of Waters, a terrible storm, and the acquisition of a thoroughly bewildered Elf - and no need to describe that one; in Sam's mind Voronwë had a soft tumble of night-dark curls and entrancingly blue eyes - past the huge claw-tracks of black Ancalagon in a once-fair wasteland, through bitter snows and near-despair to the fires of a camp of orcs.

"Uh-oh," Sam commented, food long finished and forgotten in the enchantment of Frodo's tale.

Frodo gave him a small smile. "Indeed. And Tuor was all for descending upon them and slaughtering every one of them, or being slain himself."

Sam shook his head and muttered about common sense.

"You're right," Frodo laughed. "Fortunately Voronwë had more of it; and besides, the law of Gondolin was that no one could approach the Gates with foes at his heels, and even to save his own life Voronwë would not break that law, command of Ulmo or no. But the cloak Ulmo had given Tuor had the power to make the wearer invisible, or at least unnoticed; so Tuor clasped Voronwë to him and covered them both with the cloak, and they went across the road."

Sam swallowed convulsively. "And were they unnoticed, then?"

"For a while. But orcs can smell as well as see - some of them can smell like hunting hounds - and they caught Tuor's and Voronwë's scent. They stumbled to the top of a ridge, listening to the orcs crashing through the brush and calling to each other behind them, and found a sort of lair underneath an outcropping of rock; and Tuor drew Voronwë down into it and covered the both of them with the cloak, and there they slept until morning - or rested, in Voronwë's case, for Elves don't sleep the way the rest of us do..."

Sam was barely listening. He was thinking instead about lying under a cloak in the sheltering darkness with an elf who in his mind's eye looked remarkably like Frodo; about the way their bodies would have fit together, how that soft heavy weight would have felt in his arms - and there were hands and mouth, too, for soothing away hurts and fears...

He shook his head a little and brought himself back to the warm firelit kitchen, listening and watching as Frodo described the seven great Gates of Gondolin, and the challenge of the Lord of the Fountains, glimmering in the rising sun in armor of silver and a shield bedecked with crystals, and Ulmo's speech through Tuor that won them entrance to Gondolin.

"And what happened then?" Sam asked as Frodo wound down.

Frodo spread his hands, looking a bit embarrassed. "That was all of the tale that I found," he confessed, and had to clear his throat.

"Bless you, Mr. Frodo, here I've let you talk yourself hoarse," Sam said in dismay. "Just you sit quiet while I make you some tea with honey and lemon -"

"Sam, I'm fine, really." Something in Sam's face made him relent, though, and after a moment he said "All right, but I'll put the dishes to soak while you're making it, and we'll have it in the parlor with that pipe you were looking forward to."

"Yes, sir," Sam answered, and then had to ask - "I don't suppose you know what happened to them two, do you? I mean, did they stay... friends, or -"

Frodo smiled and began picking up plates. "I don't know, but I like to think that they did."

"Be a shame if they didn't, after all that," Sam commented as he pumped water into the kettle.

"I don't think the friendship of the Elves is lightly cast aside," Frodo said from so close behind him that his breath was warm on Sam's ear, nearly making him drop the kettle. A hand reached past Sam and deposited dishes into the sink.

"Well, that one Man managed it right enough, that one as married his sister and killed the dragon," Sam pointed out, glad that his voice wasn't shaking.

Frodo laughed and leaned against the sink, so distractingly close that the kettle overflowed before Sam even realized it was getting full. "Turin. He was a kinsman of Tuor's."

"Was he, now? Not much in the way of brains, that family, were they?" Sam asked, then colored a little at the realization that much the same thing could be said of his own.

"It's always nice to have wisdom and a strong sword arm, but the two don't often occur in the same person, it seems."

"Good thing for those of us as don't have any wisdom that there's times only a strong arm will do, then."

He made to move away but Frodo laid a hand on his arm, stopping him dead in his tracks.

"You have more of wisdom than any hobbit I've ever known, my inappropriately-named friend," Frodo said quietly, and Sam blushed to the tips of his ears. "I wish you could see it as I do."

Sam took a deep breath - this seemed to be a night when many of them were required - and moved away from Frodo before he could give in to the urge to pin him against the sink. "Aye, well, there's things about you that I wish you saw as I do. Suppose that makes us even."

"I won't ask what those things are," Frodo laughed ruefully, coming to collect the rest of the dishes.

Sam hung the kettle over the fire and turned back to Frodo. "You say that like you thought it was summat bad. Do you think I'd ever think ill of you?"

Frodo's hands stilled on the plates, and it was a long moment before he looked up at Sam. "No," he whispered, and there was such a muddle of emotions in his face that Sam couldn't begin to untangle them all. "No, I don't think you would. Even if... even if I deserved it."

And there seemed to be no answer to that but the one he couldn't give: to pull Frodo into his arms, whispering words of love and reassurance into his hair, taking him to bed to chase those shadows away in a warm slick tangle of limbs and breath and soft cries of pleasure...

"I never knew you to do aught to deserve it, sir," he managed finally, and his words rang oddly in the suddenly thick air.

Frodo smiled thinly and gathered up the plates. They rattled a little in his hands. "Let's have that pipe, shall we? I'll take the kettle off when it's done and set the tea to steep."

"Yessir," Sam answered, and went into the parlor to light the fire.

There was a bright moon shining through the windows; fortunately, since he'd completely forgotten a taper and had to work by touch and hope that Frodo hadn't lost the matches again. Should have laid this earlier, he thought in exasperation. Serves me right for not paying attention to aught but Mr. Frodo in spite of telling myself I'd -

"Would this help?" Frodo asked, and Sam looked up to see him leaning in the doorway with a lit taper, bathed in the dim orange glow of the small flame.

"Um," he answered, then bit his tongue and tried to be more articulate. "It would at that, sir. Can you -"

Frodo came to sink down beside him on the hearthrug, tilting the taper so that it illuminated the wood, long fingers sliding along the wax-coated length as deftly as they moved on his pen. "Better?"

"Much," Sam answered, and turned back to the fireplace, shifting his position a bit and hoping against hope that Frodo wouldn't look down.

"How long can you stay?" Frodo asked as Sam finished arranging the kindling.

"I told Mari not to expect me back 'til late," Sam answered as he reached out without looking to take the taper from Frodo. His hand closed on warm skin instead, and it took a moment for him to recover from the jolt enough to slide his fingers upward and appropriate the taper to set the kindling alight. "She knows you keep late hours."

"I do, yes," Frodo murmured absently. He drew his hand back and knotted his fingers together on his knee, but not so quickly or tightly that Sam didn't see how much they were shaking.

The fire caught and began to crackle merrily, and Frodo stretched out a hand toward it with a soft murmur of contentment that went through Sam like a bradawl. Sam watched the flames light Frodo's hand, amber glow licking along his fingertips, and thought with a sudden strange clarity: Aye, then, it's tonight I get the sack, for I can't keep my hands off him much longer.

Frodo rose to his feet and leaned against the mantelpiece, and Sam followed suit. "Mr. Frodo... you're a bit shaky, there. Are you cold?"

Frodo took a breath and for a moment his hand tightened on the mantel; then he eased away from it. "No, rather the opposite. I'm a bit overheated with the fire going, the nights have been so warm. Are you?"

"Yes, sir," Sam managed, and suddenly wondered which of them was trying to fool which, and if either were succeeding.

"Good, then you won't mind if..." Frodo trailed off and lifted his hands to his shirt buttons, fingers trembling on fine, thin bone as he slipped the top button loose and stuck Sam's tongue securely to the roof of his mouth.

"Not at all," Sam managed to answer, with rather more truth than he would have liked.

Frodo's hands slipped downward, fingertips drawn along the luminously pale skin of his chest to the second button, his gaze never leaving Sam. Sam was in a miserable state and knew it; knew that he was staring so blatantly that blind old Widow Proudfoot couldn't have missed it, knew that he was desperately and obviously hard, knew that he should go and couldn't move. And Frodo wanted that, wanted him in this state, or he would have stopped -

Don't be a fool, Sam Gamgee, he's overheated, that's all, he told himself desperately. But that soft heat was back in Frodo's eyes, no mistaking it this time, and his hands rose from his buttons to slide his weskit off his shoulders and let it fall carelessly to the floor.

"You," Sam said, then had to start over. "You shouldn't ought to drop your weskit there like that, sir, it might take a spark from the hearth." He moved forward and knelt in front of Frodo, reaching past Frodo's ankle to catch hold of the discarded garment.

Trembling fingers wound themselves tentatively into his hair and pressed, just a little, so softly it might as well have not been a press at all; but if he'd followed it forward it would have brought his mouth to the soft skin of Frodo's stomach through the fine linen of his shirt.

Sam swallowed hard and stood - with considerable difficulty, given the state of his knees - and Frodo's hand stayed with him, gently stroking his hair. Sam had a sudden, vivid memory of his dreams, of Frodo whispering slow Elvish against his skin, and had to close his eyes tight against it.

"Sam," Frodo whispered, voice taut with such an ache that it made Sam's eyes fly open to meet his. His own wanting was so vividly mirrored there that every lie Sam had told himself about the two of them shattered in its light.

He had no idea which of them moved first. It didn't matter.

Frodo's body was hot and pliant in his arms, but not passive, no; no more than the mouth that burned against his own, the taste of Frodo's tongue that seared through him, the soft, urgent whimpers that set his heart racing so hard that he thought it might burst. Dimly he felt himself yanking Frodo's shirt out of the back of his trousers, running his hand up along skin softer than fresh-turned earth, and oh, he wanted -

For a moment he was off-balance; then he found himself in the overstuffed chair beside the fire, with a lap full of Frodo wriggling against him in a way that made him give a choked moan into Frodo's mouth and clench his fists in the fabric of Frodo's shirt. Frodo shifted a bit, pressing his knees firmly into either side of Sam's hips, and ground slowly down against him, his own breath coming in increasingly short gasps until his head fell back and a sharp, desperate cry escaped him. The line of his throat was bared now to Sam's mouth and Sam took advantage of the fact, laving his tongue along the smooth skin and nipping almost hard enough to leave marks as Frodo wailed and writhed against him with increasing desperation.

When Frodo's back began to arch Sam pulled sharply away, meeting Frodo's cry of protest with a tense groan of his own before he managed to choke out, "Bed."

"Now," Frodo gasped, stumbling to his feet and pulling Sam after him. And Sam could only hope that Frodo knew which direction they were headed, because it was all he himself could do to hold back until they got there, and it seemed utterly out of the question that he should pry his mouth away from Frodo's. The pile of books that he stubbed his toe on told him when they'd gained the hall, and he tried to maneuver Frodo out and away from the wainscoting without actually opening his eyes; but Frodo tripped over the same stack or a different one and fell back against the wall, pulling Sam with him for an impact that nearly cost Sam his hard-kept control.

"Sam," Frodo sobbed, clenching his fists in the cloth at Sam's hips and grinding hard against him; and oh, that was more than enough, and Sam caught Frodo around the waist and lifted him to sit on top of the book stack. One of his hands slid into Frodo's hair, mussing and entangling, and the other slid down to the buttons of Frodo's trousers - and hesitated.

Oh, save us, what are we doing, what does this mean -

Frodo pulled back and cupped Sam's face with his hands, and oh, he was lovely, flushed face and glittering eyes and hair all falling in a mess about his face. "Sam," he whispered in a voice thick with a desperate longing that resonated all through Sam. "Please. Please."

Sam closed his eyes and snapped open the buttons of Frodo's trousers, moving slower than he would have liked between the sudden clumsiness of his hands and Frodo's hands getting in the way as they opened Sam's pants. Then with startling suddenness there was no more cloth between them and Frodo's legs were wrapped so tightly around his waist that it was hard to breathe, and his face was buried in the cool shadow of Frodo's throat as Frodo writhed and sobbed and begged for more, harder, and oh, this was nothing like touching himself, this searing through every inch of him so that even the faint smell of roses and rosemary was tinder for that flame - this new knowledge that he could strip away Frodo's control just as Frodo could strip away his own.

And after so long of wanting, the feel of that slender body in his arms, the knowledge that it was his Frodo arching and thrusting against him, fists tangled in Sam's hair, cries filled now with a wordless desperation, swept through Sam's whole body in a flare of hot light; all he could think was Oh, Frodo, Frodo, and he might have been saying it aloud but he neither knew nor cared. All he knew was that he was on the crest of bursting with it when Frodo wailed his name and arched so hard that his head slammed back into the wall, coming hot and hard between them, and that heat and light and need flared in him until it twisted his gut and drove him hard against Frodo to lose himself in the strange unity between them.

When it passed and he could tell which parts were his and which were Frodo's again, it became clear to him that his knees were on the verge of collapse. Trying to steady his breath, he moved Frodo a little to the side and slid down the wall, sitting on his heels with his knees against the floorboard and his forehead against the cool wainscoting and Frodo still curled tightly around, and held tightly to, him.

"Oh, Sam," Frodo said at length, voice small and still breathless. "I don't think I can move."

"Aye, well, we can't stay here on the cold floor all night," Sam answered, tilting his head to nuzzle into the crook of Frodo's neck. Truth be told, he wasn't any too inclined to move himself.

One of Frodo's hands disconnected itself from the tangle and rose to rub at the back of his head. "Ouch," he said ruefully.

Sam had to laugh as he lifted his head. "Here, let me see. Are you all right? No bumps, feels like."

"I'm fine. It stings, that's all." Frodo moved his hand to lay along the side of Sam's face and leaned slowly forward, touching his mouth with an exquisite gentleness to Sam's. "My Sam. I wish I had words to tell you how dear you are to me."

Aye, I can think of words, right enough, Sam thought, then bit his lip to keep those words back. He would take what Frodo offered and ask no more, and if no more was offered than this one night...

Well. Best not to think on that. Best not to think at all.

Frodo shifted against him, wriggling luxuriously. "I think my knees have come back from wherever they disappeared to," he observed. Then he threaded his fingers into Sam's hair, looking suddenly uncertain. "Will you... will you come to bed?"

"That I will," Sam answered, and found courage enough to lean in and brush a tender kiss across Frodo's mouth.

"My lovely Sam," Frodo murmured, running his fingertips up the fine patch of hair on Sam's chest. He bent forward to drop a soft, slow line of kisses from Sam's collarbone to underneath his ear, making Sam's breath catch. "Oh, I've wanted this for so long..."

Something that was not quite a laugh caught in Sam's throat. "And me wanting you just as much -"

"You never said anything."

Sam tilted Frodo's chin up, moving him back so that their eyes met. "It weren't my place to say and you know it. You ain't some Tunnelly lad from Bywater. You're a Baggins. How could I ask to lay hands on you like this, and me in service and apt to be my whole life?"

"Like this," Frodo whispered, and leaned forward to reclaim Sam's mouth, winding tenderly around him.

Well, there was no making Frodo see sense when he'd set himself against it, and Sam much preferred this slow exploration of each others' mouths to arguing. Frodo's hands moved at his waist and his trousers slid down and away, followed by Frodo's as soon as Sam could manage it, and he found himself being gently but firmly guided over to the bed.

He'd never before done more than plant a knee on Frodo's bed as he made it, and the feather bed was much softer than he expected; soft enough that it made him startle a little as he sat down on it. The state of the bed was quickly forgotten, however; Frodo nudged and nuzzled at him until they were both stretched out in the middle of it, Sam arranged more or less comfortably on his back with his arms full of warm, amorous hobbit-gentry who was tasting his mouth with such slow thoroughness that it made his head swim. Even if Sam had wanted to, he couldn't have stopped his hands from wandering along skin that glowed like new snow in the moonlight, and Frodo gave a pleased sigh and wriggled against him.

Aye, like that, do you? Sam thought, and wasn't quite adventurous enough to say it aloud. Come here, then, and let's see how you like this.

He shifted, turning the both of them over, and pressed gentle, hungry kisses to Frodo's mouth, his eartips, his throat, working his way down to Frodo's chest. Frodo stroked his hair gently, and down the back of his neck to his shoulders, deft hands whisper-soft except for the pen callus on his index finger - and ah, there, he liked that well enough, didn't he? Sam slipped his hand downward to catch hard, silky heat in a reverent touch; and there seemed to be no end to this wanting, no amount of touching that would give him his fill of Frodo's taste and touch and voice, and Sam could be glad even of that endless need if it was fired by the feel of Frodo's body against his own.

After a while he found himself on his back again, Frodo braced atop him and nipping lightly at his earlobe, breathless whispers of ah, Sam... you feel so good... caressing him like the touch of Frodo's hands. And oh, Frodo's mouth felt wonderful on him, growing bolder than Sam's had, gentle strokes of his tongue along fingers and collarbone and the inside of Sam's elbow, moving down until it seemed that - but surely he wasn't -

He was, and Sam clenched his fists in the sheets as that warm, soft mouth drifted along his length and then took him slowly in.

Ah, this was - he could barely think from the sheer pounding need and the wash of sensation, and the soft sounds of pleasure that Frodo made around him set his whole body to vibrating like a harpstring; and he was so close already, and it wasn't right to leave Frodo hanging like that -

"Wait," he gasped, his own voice hoarse in his ears. "Mr. Frodo, I - stop for a second -"

Frodo lifted his head, and was that a flash of hurt in his face? If so, it was quickly hidden as he bent his head to nip lightly at Sam's hipbone. "I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't mean to go too fast -"

"No, it ain't that, sir. It's just that..." It was getting more difficult by the moment to summon coherent thought, what with Frodo's hair brushing against him where it was; but he had heard other lads talk, and it seemed like sense... "If you'll shift yourself around here, then I can... we can, I mean..."

Frodo laughed softly, saving Sam any further embarrassment, and shifted as requested, wrapping hand and mouth around Sam again. Sam caught his breath and his hand tightened on Frodo's hip, and it really should have occurred to him before he suggested this that he had no idea what to do; but surely there couldn't be aught wrong with tasting Frodo as Frodo was tasting him, and at the first touch of his tongue Frodo moved his head back with a strangled cry, biting hard into his lip and winding his fingers into Sam's hair.

Thoroughly distracted by Frodo's taste and heat and hardness, Sam was caught off-guard when Frodo's tongue returned to his skin; and then it was even harder not to become distracted by the things Frodo was doing to him, by the way the dim light played over Frodo's face as his cheeks hollowed and pleasure flooded through Sam as if drawn right out of his bones. The rhythm that built between them was somehow even more arousing for its slowness, for the slow stretch of pleasure, and if there was a world outside this bed and Frodo's arms then Sam cared nothing for it at all.

Sam lost control first, struggling not to thrust, pulling back to rest his head on Frodo's thigh as it caught him in a slow, inexorable winding that was somehow just as intense as the first, drawing out until it was almost unbearable, and Frodo's mouth never left him. It wasn't long before he could breathe again, though, and not long after that until Frodo's breath began coming in sharp gasping cries and his fingers tightened almost painfully in Sam's hair; and then he was coming, crying out Sam's name and yes and taut as a bowstring in Sam's arms. When he was still again Sam lifted his head to place a soft kiss on Frodo's leg, sighing in contentment against Frodo's skin.

After a minute Frodo wriggled around, urged Sam up onto the pillow, and wound tightly around him, nudging his face into the curve of Sam's neck. His breath was still a little fast, breezing warm and sweet over Sam's throat; and Sam held him close, gently stroking his hair.

"I'm glad you're here, Sam," he whispered, then yawned.

"Me too," Sam answered softly. "You're tired. You should rest."

"Mm. You've rather worn me out, I'm afraid, but in such a wonderful way..."

"You rest, sir," Sam urged again, and felt a small reflexive flinch from Frodo, a slight tightening of his muscles, drawing away just a bit. Frowning, Sam drew him back, whispering shhh into the thick tangle of his hair. Frodo relaxed slowly, melting against Sam; and then there was only the sound of their breathing as Frodo's slowed and deepened.

Ah, but this is a miracle, Sam thought, closing his eyes and losing himself in the feel of Frodo's soft skin against his own, of warm breath drifting slowly across his chest and hair tumbled over his shoulder. The thought of Frodo, his beautiful Frodo, as his lover… it seemed all the less real for the long years spent wanting something he'd been convinced he could never have. Carefully, gently, he tightened his arms just a little, bringing the slow, steady beating of Frodo's heart to his own, summoning courage enough to drop a soft kiss into Frodo's hair. Frodo sighed a little but did not stir, and Sam opened his eyes again, drawing the blanket a little farther up over his sleeping master.

Master. Now, that gave him pause.

Moonlight and dreams held too long in secret were one thing, and fine in their place. But soon or late the light outside those windows would turn golden, and long before that Sam would have to get dressed and leave to forestall one of the girls coming and knocking at the door of Bag End to see if Sam had fallen into a ditch on his way home. It was well and good to feel that he could have lain here forever with Mr. Frodo cradled in his arms and never wanted for another thing, but the plain fact of the matter was that sunrise would find him in his own bed like usual, and Mr. Frodo alone in this one; and in a few days he would have to come back to Bag End and work in the garden, because starlight on dark hair and milk-pale skin didn't make flower beds weed themselves.

And what then? He couldn't even begin to guess how things would be between them. Sam knew his master's heart well enough to know that he wasn't the type to trip servants into bed on a whim, but… well, it wasn't as if they could move in together and set up house, either, as Mr. Frodo surely knew as well as anyone else.

On the other hand, the fact that he was here in this bed, with the taste of Frodo's mouth still on his, was proof enough that Sam didn't know Frodo's heart quite as well as he'd thought.

It's past late. Best you go now before you manage to talk yourself out of it.

Well, going meant disentangling himself from Frodo, and that was easier said than done; Frodo was wound around him like climbing roses around a trellis, his head was resting on Sam's shoulder, and Sam knew for a fact that Frodo was not a sound sleeper. Moving carefully, he eased his legs away, then slowly slipped his shoulder out from under Frodo's head, replacing it with a pillow. Frodo stirred a bit, frowning, then turned his face into the pillow and relaxed again. With a sigh of relief, Sam eased off the bed, dressed quietly, and felt his way back out into the hall, stumbling a bit in the unfamiliar dark. He pulled the door silently closed behind him, and on the table just there should be…

Yes, there. Sam lit a candle and the hall sprung into view, familiar again now with that small light.

Go on, then. What are you waiting for?

For an excuse to go back. For someone to come and tell him that duty, obligations, position, knowing his place, were none of them as important as being there when Frodo woke, watching him stretch and yawn and turn his face away from the sun that spilled golden onto his sleep-touseled hair; being there to pull him close and soothe his soft, sleepy grumbling at having to wake so early…

Stop it. This is hard enough without making it worse with imaginings. Just go.

Sam paused with his hand on the front doorknob, breath easing out in a long sigh. Reluctantly, he lifted the candle to blow it out.

"Sam."

Sam started and turned to see Frodo leaning against the wall of the hallway outside his bedroom door, trousers pulled hastily on and shirt flung on unbuttoned, clutching his elbows as if he were cold. In the dim light he looked very sleepy and very young, and Sam's heart melted painfully. "I thought you were asleep," he said quietly.

"I think I was. I don't know. Are you leaving?"

"I have to be getting home. The girls'll fret if I'm not there soon."

Frodo looked down. "I won't ask you to stay," he said, very softly. "But I want to."

Sam sighed again and went back to Frodo, gathering him into his arms. Frodo rested his head on Sam's shoulder, holding him in an embrace loose and heavy with sleep. "Give me half an hour," Sam whispered. "I'll tell the girls - well, I'll tell them something, I don't know what. Then I'll be back."

"Tell them I don't feel well and I want you to stay. That's the truth."

Sam frowned and moved away a little, cupping Frodo's chin in his hands and lifting it. "What's the matter?"

"My head hurts, that's all."

"Go back to bed. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Frodo pulled Sam back, pressing slow, drowsy kisses to the side of his neck. "Thank you, Sam," he whispered.

"Go back to bed," Sam repeated, kissing Frodo lightly on the forehead.

When he got back, though, the hearth-fire glowed red from the kitchen. Setting down a pack with a change of clothes in it, he made his way to the kitchen to see Frodo sitting at the table looking down into a cup of tea. Frodo glanced up when he came in, eyes softening into an oddly shy pleasure.

"I half thought you wouldn't come back."

Unsure what to do or where he ought to be, Sam leaned against the doorway. "I said I would. When have you known me to break my word?"

"Never," Frodo said with a wry smile. "But… well, you're here. Do you want some tea?"

"No thank you, I'm fine. How's your head?"

"It still hurts a little, but it's getting better."

There was a moment's silence; then their eyes met and they both began to laugh.

"This is a bit awkward, isn't it?" Frodo said ruefully.

"Aye," Sam answered quietly. "It is that."

Well, if it was over now then over it was, but Frodo was still his Mr. Frodo. Sam moved around behind Frodo's chair and began rubbing at his temples. "Better?"

Frodo sighed happily. "You have such wonderful hands, Sam." He leaned back and stretched, running his hands up Sam's arms.

"You should go back to bed, Mr. Frodo," Sam told him, and meant only You're tired.

"I should. And you should come with me," Frodo answered, pulling Sam's hand down to his mouth and kissing it softly. "And you should stop calling me Mr. Frodo once we're there."

Sam frowned. Even with the taste of Frodo's skin still on his tongue, that seemed like taking a bit too much of a liberty. "Sir, I…"

"And 'sir.'" Frodo drew Sam around to the side of the chair and stood, sliding his hands up Sam's chest. "Sam. It's the middle of the night. There's no one here but the two of us. Surely having your hand down my pants ought to put us on a first-name basis, don't you think?"

Sam felt himself go scarlet. "Mr. Frodo!"

Frodo smiled and moved closer, drawing his tongue in light teasing flicks over Sam's throat. "Really, Sam, you've breached propriety enough to make me come so hard that my knees are still weak, what's calling me by name compared to that?"

"It's…" Oh, and there was no way to explain this without insulting the both of them. "It's just different, that's all. Laying with the Master doesn't give you leave to be familiar outside the bedroom, or even free with your tongue in it."

Frodo had gone still four words into that sentence, mouth barely resting on Sam's collarbone; now he pushed away, teasing transmuted into blazing anger in the space of a moment. "Is that what you think this is? That I'm nothing more than… than one of the gentry tripping the servants and groping the parlormaid?"

"No, I -"

"Why are you here, Sam? Why did you do this with me? I wanted you, and I thought you wanted me. Are you telling me that this was nothing more than one of those things that servants have to put up with if they don't want to lose their livelihoods? Did you think you couldn't tell me no? You could have, you know. You can still. You can turn and walk out the door and you won't lose your job. You won't lose anything, nothing important, you'll lose me but that's apparently beside the point. You can go home and I won't ever take advantage of our positions again. There won't be anything more come of this than a story to tell when you're at the pub with the rest of the servants complaining about your positions, so they can click their tongues and shake their heads and say 'Oh, poor Sam, having to be in service with that Mr. Baggins, and him no better than he should be but at least he can't get you pregnant and then turn you out into the street without a character -'"

"Stop it!" Sam shouted, horrified at himself for doing it but unable to keep silent in the face of Frodo's anger.

"And don't shout at me!" Frodo shot back, his own voice rising precipitously in volume. "You can speak to me like a lover or you can speak to me like a servant but by the Valar you won't take half measures, not with the smell of sex still hanging in the air in my bedroom. If I'd seen anything like distaste in you I would have stopped, if I'd seen any sign that you were less than willing, I'd have let it go and licked my wounds and never tried anything on with you again, but you never gave me any sign, all it took was a dropped weskit and a suggestive touch to get you panting after me like a -"

"Stop! Stop now before you say something that'll hurt us both beyond fixing."

"Do you think that isn't already done? I don't think I can agree with you there, Sam. Not after you've let me know what you think of me, that you didn't want this, that I -"

"I didn't say that! You're putting words in my mouth, and sure as death you've words and to spare of your own, but they're yours, not mine."

"Then tell me why you won't call me by name. Tell me why lying with me isn't lying with me at all, not Frodo Baggins, it's 'lying with the Master' and it doesn't give you leave to extend any sort of intimacy because the Master is still all I am to you. Tell me what you wanted when you put your tongue in my mouth and your hands on my body, tell me who you pretended you were touching when you closed your eyes, tell me what you think I am that I could do something like this!"

"How can I tell you anything when you won't let me get a word in edgewise?" Sam cried, wishing for one dizzying minute that he could grab Frodo by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. "You're taking it all wrong, what I said, and you won't let me tell you different because you've worked yourself into such a state that you wouldn't listen if I did tell you. You're so sure that you know how it is, and you're too angry for us to sit down and talk about it like sensible people. You tell me what I'm supposed to say to make that better."

"I love you, Sam."

Sam stopped in mid-breath, stunned into silence as much by Frodo's suddenly quiet voice as by the words themselves.

"I have for years, I think, and Valar help me, I still do, and I don't think I want to talk about this anymore." Frodo turned and vanished into the sitting room so quickly that Sam was left blinking against the candlelight before he whirled and shot out into the hall, intercepting Frodo on the way back to his room. Setting aside thoughts of his place completely, he caught Frodo by the upper arms and pulled him to a halt.

"Please," he said desperately. "Stop. Tell me what to say, tell me what to do, please. Tell me how to make this right again."

"There's nothing to make right, I told you you wouldn't lose your position and believe it or not I meant it -"

"Bugger my position, that isn't what I meant. I don't care if I lose my position. It's you I don't want to lose, not now, not after so long of watching and wanting and…" Sam laid his hand gently along the side of Frodo's face, turning it back to him. "And loving. I just… you're all air and fire, and I can't change as fast as you can. Give me time to get used to this."

Frodo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "When you can come to my bed without thinking of me as the Master or Mr. Frodo, then we'll see what we can make of this. Until then - I can't, Sam. I can't bear to be the kind of person that would make me." He pulled away from Sam and started down the hall again.

"I'm going to bed," he said without looking back. "You can stay or go as you see fit. You know where the extra blankets are."

He didn't slam the bedroom door behind him. In a way, it was worse than if he had.

Part 1

Part 3

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