Frodo was gone the next time Sam came to Bag End.

The time after that he was there, but so were a handful of his kin: Pippin and his sister and mother, and what seemed to be another sister, and Merry Brandybuck. They took tea out on the lawn again; clearly against Frodo's wishes, but Eglantine under full sail appeared to have something of the blithely indifferent force of an avalanche, and by the time the dust had settled she was holding court in a lawn chair again, with her offspring and younger kin settled around her on the blanket.

Sam picked up his tools and withdrew to a part of the garden where he could watch Frodo without being in his line of sight.

There was much talk of Pearl's suitors, and much rolling of Pearl's eyes behind her mother's back, and talk of a large number of things about landholding that Sam didn't understand and didn't care to; and Frodo's voice was only raised two or three times into that discussion, and it was quiet and strained every time. This time, when Pippin climbed teasingly into Frodo's lap, Frodo didn't push him away. Instead he cradled his cousin to him as if Pippin were a very small hobbit-lad, burying his face in the unruly tangle of Pippin's hair.

Pippin sobered immediately, frowning, and burrowed closer into Frodo's embrace. Merry eased closer as well and wrapped his arms around Frodo's waist, clearly knowing only that Frodo was unhappy; but Pippin's eyes flicked toward Sam, troubled and suspicious. Sam looked quickly away.

Their tea ended like that; with Eglantine and the Took lasses sitting in troubled silence while Frodo rocked Pippin with a slow, slight movement, and Pippin wound his arms around Frodo and crooned a soft, gentle, indefinably Tookish melody.

Sam left early that day.

"Da'll be home tomorrow," Marigold said over her shoulder.

"I know it, Mari, I've been keeping track," Sam said mildly.

Marigold rolled the dough into a ball, tucked the edges under, and set it under a towel to rise on the counter. That done, she dusted off her hands and came to stand beside Sam, setting her hands on his shoulders and squeezing softly.

"Best you tell me about it, then, and pull the sting before the Gaffer gets home and sees you in such a taking," she said gently.

Sam opened his mouth for a denial, and found instead that he had wrapped his arms around his sister's waist and turned his face into her apron as he had done with their mother when he was small and had taken some hurt or other.

Mari sighed and stroked his hair. "What did you do with him, Sam? First you're to stay the night at Bag End, then you don't, then you won't talk to anyone but to snap at them, and now you're home from work early looking like somebody died."

He hadn't meant to tell her. He told her anyway, and between misery and sheer catharsis was in tears by the time he was done.

"Oh, Sam-lad," Mari said, half in affection and half in exasperation. "Bless you, you know he don't like that 'Mr. Frodo, sir' business from his gardener, what made you think he'd want it from his lover?"

"It's only proper," Sam said stubbornly.

"Prop - Samwise Gamgee, you're a fine one to talk of proper. Proper ain't tumbling your master so hard they probably heard him in Bywater -"

"What? "

"Proper's keeping your trousers buttoned and your hands where they belong, and your eyes and all the rest of your body too, and if you've spit in propriety's face enough to take a roll in the hay with the young Squire hisself then you've got no business calling him 'Mr.' or 'sir' when you know it'll make him unhappy."

Sam closed his eyes, still leaning against his sister. "That's what he said. And said a whole lot of other things besides, and was so furious at me when I left that he wouldn't even shout anymore. What am I going to do, Mari?"

Marigold was silent for a minute, then heaved a sigh. "All things pass, Sam. Likely he'll never ask you to dinner again, but it'll get so you two aren't like this around each other. You'll find a nice lass to wed and so will he, and the two of you between you may have broken something that can't be mended but there's naught to say there's nothing else you can put in its place."

"And supposin' I don't want something else?" Sam asked slowly. "Suppose I want him?"

"Do you now?" Marigold asked gently. "You want the lads down the pub elbowing each other and asking if you're too fine for them now you're rumpling the finest sheets in Hobbiton? Want Ted Sandyman askin' you how the planting's going and then laughing and slapping his cronies on the back? And what about Mr. Frodo? Them Sackville-Bagginses were in enough of a taking just from him having you over to dinner. You want all the old cats in the market getting quiet when he passes and then whispering about him behind his back? Want every one of the gentry for miles around sniffing about how their daughters ain't good enough for the Baggins fortune, he'd rather have a roll in the dirt with a servant?"

"He ain't 'the Baggins fortune,' Mari!"

"That's just what he is to some of 'em, and more besides - an upstart Brandybuck whelp waltzing in to take up the position in Hobbiton that ought by rights to have gone to one of them when Mr. Bilbo left, or so they think. You know all this, Sam. You know how it could hurt the both of you. You may be willing to put up with it, but how can you ask it of him, and him probably not understanding what'd happen, bless him?"

"He understands more than you think."

"And less than you do. Between his parents and his Buckland kin and old Mr. Bilbo, when has he ever been anywhere he wasn't loved and doted on, let alone having people think ill of him?"

Sam smiled. "Aye, he must have been a pretty bairn, with them eyes and all," he said quietly, then yelped as Marigold grabbed the tip of his ear and gave it a good yank.

"Samwise Gamgee," she began, then grabbed a fistful of his hair and gave his head a light shake. "Oh, I wash my hands of it. You're too besotted to see sense, and like as not he is too. Well, then, find out the hard way, but don't be saying I never gave you warning."

"Aye, well, I'm not likely to find out any way at all, am I?" Sam answered glumly. "He's that hurt and furious, Mar, he won't so much as talk to me."

Marigold sighed and petted Sam's hair. "He will sooner or later."

"Aye, to say 'Good morning, Sam, I'm marrying Pearl Took, hope you'll come to the wedding and all - and by the way, she wants them roses along the back wall torn out and turnips put in instead.'"

"Now you're just pouting," Mari said sternly. "Go on, get cleaned up and go down to the Green Dragon for a while. You want taking out of yourself."

"I want taking out of your kitchen, you mean," Sam grumbled, then gave his sister a light squeeze and sat back. "And thank'ee for letting me natter on. I know you mean not to see me hurt and if I had a brain in my head I'd take your advice; it's just..."

"Just that between your heart and your pants and Frodo Baggins' bright eyes your poor brain couldn't make itself heard if it roared like a dragon," Marigold filled in dryly. "What will you do, then?"

Sam spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know, Mar. Leave flowers on his doorstep until he ain't so mad anymore and then try to talk sense into him. Call him Frodo if that's what he wants. I can't pretend I don't think of him as the Master. I do, and the Master's that dear to me that I can't choose between him and Frodo, if you take my meaning, no matter which one of 'em I'm supposed to be lying with."

Marigold snickered. "Take both of 'em, then, and the three of you have a right party in that big feather bed."

Sam swatted her on the hip. "Marigold Gamgee, get back to your baking and get your mind out of the privy," he said sternly. "Anyway, two of Mr. Frodo's more'n any hobbit in the Shire could live through, though whether you'd die quicker of happiness or grief is more than I can say."

Clicking her tongue sternly, Marigold went back to the counter and lifted the towel covering a bowl of dough. "Aye, you don't ever do aught by halves, do you?" she asked, pushing at the dough and deflating it with a soft whoosh. "Frodo Baggins, of all the beds in the Shire you could have cast your eyes toward..."

Sam rose and reached for his coat. "There's none in the Shire more worth casting eyes toward, and wouldn't be if the mattress was stuffed with straw and fleas instead of goosedown, so long as he was in it," he said quietly. "I'll not be too late coming home."

"See to it you aren't," Marigold said mildly. "I'm not doing all this baking just so me, May and Daisy can sit down three to supper."

Sam thought about having dinner alone with his three sisters, one of them knowing full well what was bothering him and not approving of it, the other two bound and determined to find out what the trouble was, and mentally revised his expected length of stay at the pub.

"Left the Gaffer at home, did you?" he asked as he slid onto the bench next to Nick. Catching the barmaid's eye, he signalled for an ale.

Nick chuckled. "He thinks Da's homebrew could use a bit of tinkering with. They've been at it all day, changing and testing and all, and he and Da and Mum all were three sheets to the wind when we left. How's your pretty sister, then?"

"I have three sisters and they're all pretty, and all of 'em doing fine," Sam said a trifle repressively; he wasn't sure he held with a flirt like Nick Cotton casting eyes on one of the girls.

"And what's the matter with your Mr. Frodo?" Tom asked, and the noise of the pub dimmed suddenly in Sam's ears.

Fortunately his ale arrived at that moment, giving him something to occupy himself with until he was sure he could speak without his voice shaking. "Sickening for something, is all. Why?" he asked, paying very careful attention to blowing down the foamy alehead.

Tom gestured back toward the bar. "He's way back there in the corner, him and his cousin and Fatty Bolger, hiding at that table on the other side of the screen from the alecasks and looking like he's had a death in the family. Figured you'd know what he was so unhappy about."

"Don't know everything that goes on with him, do I?" Sam asked, trying to make light of it. He should have thought of Frodo being at the pub but he hadn't, and if he left now it wouldn't take as quick a wit as Tom and Nick shared to figure out why.

Nick looked narrowly at him. "If you don't, it'll be the first day since he moved to Bag End that you haven't. Wasn't it you as knew he was coming down with pneumonia before he'd so much as gotten the sniffles?"

"That was no more'n sense," Sam answered in exasperation. It was the circles under Frodo's eyes and the small, restless, fretful movements of his hands that had told Sam something was wrong; and when Sam had asked Frodo to read him something, the soft strained hitch in Frodo's breathing had told him exactly what. It was so clear that Sam had been amazed - and none too pleased - to find that no one else had noticed.

That's all right, Mr. Frodo, I've heard all I need to. Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm putting you to bed and making you some willow-bark tea and a hot compress, and when Mr. Bilbo gets home to sit with you I'll go for Gammer Hornblower.

Once while he'd been ill Frodo had fallen asleep holding Sam's hand, fever-hot fingers interlaced with Sam's own.

"What's ailing you, then, Sam?" Tom asked, and Sam looked up to find two near-identical pairs of gray-green eyes fixed far more closely on him than he would have liked.

Sam forced a smile and busied himself filling his pipe. "Feeling a bit under the weather m'self, I suppose. How's that barn roof holding up?"

Nick and Tom looked at each other; some unspoken communication flashed between them, and then Nick picked up his ale and turned back to Sam. "Well enough. It'll keep the rain off the cows for a year or two, right enough, though I thought when I looked at it..."

Sam wasn't listening. He couldn't. Frodo's presence in the room pulled at him like the sun drawing a flower, filling his senses with the scent of rosemary and the feel of whisper-soft skin against his own, of Frodo's breath warm on his ear and soft murmurs: Oh, Sam... oh, yes, there, touch me... Not a dream now, those images, not the product of restless wishing in the silence of his room, but sharp and real as the table under his elbows. And those hurt, right enough, but not nearly as much as others - Frodo twined trustingly around him, drowsy and sated; cornflower eyes lit with a fury that did not quite cover feelings of hurt and betrayal.

I love you, Sam. 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.

"Go home, Sam," Tom said flatly, and Sam realized that he was clutching his pipe in a white-knuckled grip. "You look like death warmed over."

Sam smiled ruefully. "I will in a bit. I'd as soon not be home for dinner and have three sisters clucking over me. One more ale and I'll be on my way."

"Aye, Rosie can be a right dragon when one of us is ill. All right, then, but if you fall dead face-down in your ale don't expect us to be carrying you home. We'll just shove you under the table and use you for a footrest."

"Fair enough," Sam answered, and looked about for a barmaid. Seeing that they were all busy, he caught up his own tankard and Nick's near-empty one and made his way toward the alecasks.

It was Merry that Frodo was with, he saw as he drew near, and both of them had their backs to the room; it was doubtful that they'd seen him come in. Sam slipped by them unnoticed into the dark alcove where the casks were set and set Nick's tankard under the tap, acutely conscious of the fact that only a thin, opaque piece of carved wood separated him from Frodo, unable to keep from straining his ears to catch his master's soft voice - or, might as well say it and have done, his lover's. Or whatever Frodo was to him now, if indeed they were still anything at all.

"Frodo has, haven't you?" Fatty Bolger was asking cheerfully. Though he didn't mean it, Sam found his movements slowing. He finished filling Nick's mug, set it aside, and rested a hand on the spout, listening.

"I don't think he has," Merry argued.

"I have," Frodo said, so quietly Sam could barely hear him. "Once."

"You have? And here I was thinking you were still a virgin."

Oh, Elbereth, no, Sam thought numbly, oddly disconnected from the voices in his ears and everything else around him, staring down at his empty mug as though it were the only thing anchoring him to this warm barroom. No. His first time too, and I... Oh, Frodo.

"Why only once?" Fatty wanted to know.

There was a long silence. Sam closed his eyes, waiting.

When Frodo finally spoke again, the strain in his voice showed through the thin layer of forced cheer so palpably that tears stung behind Sam's eyelids. "I... it... things between us ended badly, I'm afraid. Quite broke my heart into about ten thousand pieces. I should never have done it to begin with, but the only thing to be done about it now is to face up to the fact that I made a stupid mistake, and carry on."

Sam leaned his head against the keg and wiped his face with one trembling hand.

"What happened, Frodo love?" Merry asked softly.

"I..." Another moment's silence. "I pushed things too hard, I'm afraid. I asked things that I had no right to. It was my own fault, but I couldn't... I couldn't not ask. So I did, and I found out far more than I wanted to about his feelings for me, or lack thereof."

"What in the world did you want, then?"

A longer silence before Frodo whispered, "I wanted him to call me by name."

And the effect that that simple sentence had on Sam's gut was not in any way ameliorated by the fact that Merry's voice when he answered was thick with a cold rage that Sam had never heard in it before. "And that was too much to ask? What the blazes did he call you? 'Rent boy'?"

"Merry, you don't understand, there's more to it than that. It was more than I should have asked. Let it go, it's over now."

"Poor Frodo," Fatty said sympathetically. "Never mind, you'll find someone else. You're young yet, and not too terribly homely."

Ah, you don't understand, he's as beautiful as the morning. If you'd seen him the way I have, with the moonlight on his skin...

But the small, lame joke had made Frodo laugh ruefully, which was more than Sam would have been able to do at the moment. "Thank you for that heartening reassurance, Fatty."

Sam left the tankards where they were and slipped out the back, cold autumn air chilling the tears on his face.

By the time the Gaffer came home from the Cotton farm, Sam had spent a couple of sleepless nights dwelling on the matter; and had decided that, come what may, he couldn't let Frodo go on thinking what he was thinking. But it wasn't as easy as saying I love you, I'm sorry, can you understand? There was no knowing what Frodo would take that to mean at this point; and it was already a wound deeper than Sam cared to probe that Frodo could take such a dim view of Sam's feelings for him, without digging himself in deeper. It might well be that Mari was right, and best and easiest would be to let things go and let time mend them. But somehow his master, without being any the less his master, had gone in Sam's thoughts from Mr. Frodo to Frodo, and attached to that name was an unspoken mine; and, startled and disturbed as Sam was by his own sudden territorial streak, the fact was that he couldn't bear to let that distance between them set itself in use and custom until there'd be no bridging it even if he tried.

By the time he was due back at Bag End, he had had just about all he could take of staring up at the ceiling and trying not to remember Frodo's warm, soft weight in his arms.

He set to the pruning absently when he arrived, blinking against the afternoon sun. Bag End was to all appearances empty; the better to come up with some sort of opening before Frodo returned, because he could hardly just barge into the kitchen and demand that Frodo sit down and talk to him. Maybe better to leave it until the next time he was there first thing in the morning. If he got there before Frodo woke, what would there be easier than to slip into bed with him and fold Frodo in his arms, and either Sam would hit the floor again right quick and probably square on his head or they wouldn't need words at all for a while -

"Sam."

Only a quick dodge saved Sam from dropping the pruning shears point-first onto his foot. His heart hammering in his throat, Sam picked up the shears and turned to face Frodo, and oh, he wasn't ready for this after all, and Frodo's arms were folded far too tightly across his chest and he wasn't looking at Sam, and his face was more closed than Sam had ever seen it.

"May I speak to you for a moment, please?" Frodo said more than asked, voice more formal than Sam had ever heard it. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and went back in through the kitchen door.

None too sanguine about the outcome of whatever discussion was coming his way, Sam followed Frodo into the smial.

The table was between the two of them, and Frodo was busy pouring boiling water into the teapot to steep. He did not look at Sam. "You probably know already that the Widow Chubb's gardener is retiring," Frodo said in a tightly controlled voice; no How are you, Sam? , no asking after his family or the garden or anything else. The knot in Sam's stomach twisted tighter.

"Aye, I know it. He's got the rheumatism, Farley does, and says he's past the age he ought to be diggin' in the dirt -"

"I've arranged for her to take you on," Frodo interrupted. "The gardens there are lovely, bigger than mine, Farley's kept them very well."

Oh, I'm not hearin' this, Sam thought, stunned. "But... that's a big job, sir, and not enough hours in the week for me to be here and there both."

Frodo's mouth twisted impatiently and he moved around the table to hang the kettle back over the fire. "I can take care of my garden better than the Widow Chubb can take care of hers."

Morgoth's bloody gate you can, Frodo Baggins, you could kill a rock garden! "Sir, if I've not given satisfaction -"

The kettle slipped off the swinging metal arm and clattered deafeningly into the fire, sending sparks upward in a brilliant cloud. Without bothering to get it back, Frodo turned and went to pull a bowl of sugar out of the cupboard. Sam waited until Frodo's back was turned and then grabbed a pair of tongs and fished the kettle out of the flames, moving it to a more secure perch in the sink.

"Of course you have, Sam, you're the best gardener in the Shire. I recommended you very highly. She's anxious to have you start at once, so Farley can show you how everything's laid out."

Sam felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Through the blood pounding in his ears, he heard himself say "I'll need a few days to see that everything's put to rights here."

Frodo dusted off his hands and looked up, focusing his gaze a few inches to Sam's left. "Of course, take as much time as you need, but I told her you'd be available by the end of the week."

"Yes, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered. Seeing no other choice, he turned to leave, and got all the way to opening the the door before he gave in to the urge to look back. Frodo was staring at the floor, clutching his elbows as he had the night he'd asked Sam to stay, and there was more pain and loss and loneliness in his face than Sam could have stood to see on Ted Sandyman's face, let alone Frodo's.

Suddenly the situation seemed thoroughly intolerable. Sam paused, one hand on the door, and turned back. "Is this how it's to be, then? Us pretending we're no more to each other than master and servant, and not even that in a few days more?"

Frodo turned away, busying himself with the teapot. "I didn't know we were anything more," he said coldly, but Sam heard the hurt underneath it and sighed. "All right, I seduced you, I'm sorry -"

"I'm not."

Frodo's hands stilled.

Sam watched him, watched the afternoon light glow in his hair, looked at the delicate, expensive stitchery on his waistcoat. There were hundreds of years of social class surrounding that still moment; generations of Gamgees in service, generations of Bagginses and Brandybucks and Tooks with so much money and power that they didn't even see it anymore. There were years, as long as he could remember, of the Gaffer telling him to know his place; and Sam knew it, none better. There were all the things that Frodo would never understand, and all the things that Sam wouldn't either. There was the fact that Sam had nothing to offer Frodo that he didn't already have, that Sam would never be able to live in Bag End and feel that it was home, that there'd be grief from everyone from the Master of Buckland right down to the tosspots at the Green Dragon…

There was Frodo with the light in his hair, with ink stains on his fingers; there was the memory of what those amazing eyes looked like when they were lit with happiness.

Walk away, Sam, you fool, he thought, and closed the door.

Frodo gave a startled sound and flinched when Sam's hands slipped onto his shoulders from behind. Sam shushed him, pulling him close, and rubbed his face against Frodo's soft hair. "You've put salt in that tea, you know, not sugar," he said quietly.

"Oh," Frodo said in a voice that shook just a little. "I… they were…"

"Set right next to each other, aye, I know. How do you manage when I'm not here to look after you?"

"I…" Frodo swallowed hard. "I throw things out and start over a lot."

"Well, that's as good a way as any, I suppose; but better to mind what you're doing to begin with. You can't tell me that salt cellar looks much like the sugar bowl."

"No, I suppose it doesn't. I don't know what I was thinking."

Sam moved his hands down and slid his arms around Frodo's waist. "I don't know what I was either. Except that you're a gift so precious that no Gamgee since the name began ever set hands on the like, or ever deserved to. And that it was easier, in a manner of speaking, to watch you from out in the garden and know I could never touch you than to hold something this rare in my hands and be afraid to death that it'll shatter. I have a hard enough time keeping you from putting salt in the tea, how am I supposed to keep your heart safe too?" He smiled into Frodo's hair. "You know, I remember when you came to Bag End."

"Do you?" Frodo asked with a small smile of his own, and the tension was beginning to drain out of him.

"Aye, I do. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And I thought: This one wants looking after. Mr. Bilbo, he can do for himself, but if ever there was a one with one foot in another world and not enough attention to spare for the pot roast, it's that cousin of his."

Frodo laughed ruefully. "I'd argue with you but I don't think I have a leg to stand on at the moment."

"You don't at that," Sam whispered, lips brushing across the hair behind Frodo's ear. "Ah, you've no idea how much your coming was talked about. Mr. Baggins' cousin, a new heir, all the way from Buckland and half a Brandybuck himself, born and raised in the Hall we'd all spun so many wild tales about… aye, we all expected you to be so fine that you'd have nary a word for any of us. Then you got there and stood in the garden talking to the Gaffer with just as much respect as you showed Mr. Bilbo, and spoke to me like I was grown, not like some folk talk to bairns like they were half-witted, and your smile was so shy and so sweet… I promised myself then that it'd be me as took care of you, and I've tried hard to do it ever since."

"Oh, Sam…" Frodo's hands crept upward, coming tentatively to rest on Sam's arms. The slanting sun spilled onto those hands and soaked them with rich golden light.

"I didn't mean to hurt you like I did. It's just that I had to learn to see you in a whole new way, like the dear Master I'd known was gone and I didn't quite know who'd taken his place, and I surely didn't know where my place was supposed to be. I'm still not sure of it, and for all your words I don't think you are either. This is so new and so fragile, and so many things standing between us, that I'm terrified to put a foot wrong and bring it all crashing down forever. And I don't know what's to become of us even if we do get past this first part; because the plain fact is, and no making it go away, that there's no one in your world or mine likes to see servants getting above themselves. For a quick tumble now and then, aye, everyone'll look the other way, but not for this. Not for loving each other, not for me not being able to call you Mr. Frodo without you looking like I'd slapped you."

"I know," Frodo whispered. "I'm not so caught up in books and old tales that I don't know all that."

Sam smiled and caught Frodo's hand in his, rubbing at the ink stain on Frodo's index finger. "I was all of seventeen when I first found out I loved you… aye, as long ago as that. You'd come out into the garden one evening, you and Mr. Bilbo, just as the stars were starting to show and the crickets starting to sing; and the two of you were laughing because there was a breeze and you couldn't get your matches to stay lit long enough to light your pipes. Mr. Bilbo called over and told me the roses were looking beautiful, and I thanked him for it, but something in me thought: There's nothing'll ever grow in this garden as beautiful as my Frodo is tonight."

Droplets fell onto his arms like a warm rain, one and then another, and Frodo lifted a hand to rub at his face. "You tell stories beautifully, Sam," he said shakily.

"Ah, not good ones, not fine tales like you and Mr. Bilbo tell. All I can tell about is little things, homely things, gardens and… and you lit by the sun like it was shining through autumn leaves, putting salt in your tea and never noticing…"

Frodo slipped a hand around the back of Sam's neck and craned his chin around, catching Sam's mouth with his own; then before he had done more than brush Sam's lips with his he drew back again, looking away uncertainly. Sam turned Frodo around to him and slipped his hands up to cup Frodo's face, drawing that unsettlingly blue gaze back to his own.

"Oh, if I ever did aught to make you think I wouldn't want you…" he breathed, and kissed Frodo softly.

To Frodo they were probably only comfortable sheets, but they made Sam nervous: cool linen woven so finely that it felt like silk, gossamer-thin - he suspected, he hoped, that they were much less delicate than they looked. But the problem of the sheets could be safely delayed for a few minutes while Sam covered Frodo's mouth with soft, teasing kisses, nipping lightly at Frodo's lips and running his tongue over them in brief, flicking strokes as they unbuttoned each other's shirts. Frodo murmured fretfully and caught Sam's lip between his teeth, releasing it to dart his tongue deep into Sam's mouth, and Sam smiled and stopped teasing. Then there were no more buttons under his hands and he pulled a little away to ease the shirt away from skin lit golden by the failing light. Thick-woven cotton slipped away from Frodo's shoulders and down his back; Sam caught the shirt and began automatically to fold it before Frodo grumbled with affectionate exasperation, took it away from him, and dropped it unceremoniously onto a chair.

"You're beautiful," Sam whispered.

Frodo smiled and caught the open front of Sam's shirt, pulling him closer. "My standards of beauty are a little different, I think, my lovely Sam." He slipped Sam's shirt off and dropped it onto the chair with his own.

Sam sighed blissfully and ran his hand in long slow strokes up and down Frodo's back, pulling him closer as Frodo's arms twined around him. "And what am I supposed to tell the Gaffer when he asks why those flower beds along the back wall didn't get weeded, eh?"

"Tell him I had other things I wanted you to do," Frodo whispered, tilting his hips against Sam's and moving to suck at his earlobe.

Sam took a deep breath and let his hand travel down past the line of Frodo's trousers. "And when he asks what those other things were?"

"Tell him…" Frodo nibbled thoughtfully at Sam's eartip. "Tell him I wanted you to help me get some things up. Shelves or something, I mean, of course."

Sam laughed. "Do you think I could tell him that with a straight face?"

Frodo's hands moved down to Sam's trouser buttons. "Better than telling him that I wanted you to make love to me until neither of us could keep going another minute, isn't it?"

"It is that." Sam's fingertips traced the shadow of a slender branch up Frodo's arm, weaving softly back and forth as the branch was tossed by the breeze. If he had had qualms about standing by the window, they were long gone now.

Frodo slid his hand over Sam's and lifted Sam's hand to his mouth, trailing a soft, unhurried line of kisses from wrist to fingertip. Sam took advantage of that momentary repositioning to unbutton Frodo's pants and slide them down over his hips, releasing them to fall to the ground. Frodo kicked them absent-mindedly to the side, still intent on exploring the taste of Sam's fingers. With a soft murmur of desire, Sam pulled his fingers back and replaced them with his mouth, pulling Frodo full against him.

Thin, clever hands edged between them, freeing the rest of his buttons, pushing his pants to the floor, touching him, and Sam whimpered and pressed into that touch. Frodo released him instantly, laughing as he pulled away toward the bed. And somehow the sheets had completely ceased to matter; what mattered was that Frodo was pulling Sam down on top of him, lifting his mouth eagerly to Sam's, his own hair and Sam's casting shadow-tendrils on his face in light that was slowly turning from golden to lavender. And oh, he was dazzling, there wasn't a sense Sam possessed that wasn't filled with him in a soft glow of pleasure; and Sam didn't think he would ever find it in himself to take this for granted, to come to Frodo's bed and not touch him as if it might be the last time he ever could.

"You smell like honeysuckle," he whispered, brushing his lips against Frodo's ear.

Frodo laughed. "And you smell like roses."

"Mm. It was the roses I was pruning today." A quick taste of Frodo's mouth and then he moved down a little, wondering at how soft and delicate the skin of Frodo's throat felt under his tongue.

"You amaze me, do you know that?" Frodo whispered, lacing his fingers in Sam's hair and shifting slowly against him. "Whatever you touch lives and blossoms."

"Gardens just want a bit of care, is all," Sam told him, nibbling lightly at the base of Frodo's throat and moving down past his collarbone.

"And what do gardeners want?"

"Something to take care of, I suppose." Sam's mouth began a slow exploration of Frodo's chest, making Frodo gasp and whimper and move eagerly underneath him. "Never… thought about it… really."

"You'll have to, you know."

"I know it. But not right this minute. Seems to me I've more important things to do." And Frodo wanted distracting before he worked himself around to being all upset again, and since Sam's mouth was moving in that direction anyway…

"Oh, Sam…"

Slowly, then, guided partly by what he remembered Frodo doing to him, partly by what looked good at the time, and partly by Frodo's cries, Frodo's fingers tugging insistently at his hair. And what a purely physical pleasure it was, the feel of that skin in his hands, on his tongue; soft as Frodo's hair, softer than the sheets beneath them, as if Frodo's whole world were wrapped in the smooth weight of heavy silk. For a moment Sam winced at the thought of the calluses on his hands; then Frodo gave a strangled cry of protest and he returned his attention to what he was doing.

Not long, though, before Frodo was murmuring "Sam, stop, come here," and pulling him back up, winding him in a tight embrace, arching and stretching up against him with tantalizing slowness. Sam let out a shaky breath and matched that slow pressure, exploring Frodo's mouth with deliberate thoroughness; and the languid ebb and swell of their movements was dizzying, hypnotizing, unbearably exciting.

"Ah, Frodo, love," he breathed into Frodo's ear, running his hand down to curl around Frodo's hip, and Frodo gave a soft, contented hum as Sam's tongue traced the upsweep of his eartip.

Some irksome part of Sam's mind was aware that it was getting late, that the sun would be down soon, and that the combination of no Sam in the garden and no lights on in Bag End would make for two and two that the Gaffer and Marigold at least were certainly capable of putting together to make four. Sam found that he didn't care. All that mattered, maybe all that had ever mattered, was that Frodo was happy; that Frodo's mouth was warm and sweet under his own, that his body rocked lazily against Sam's like the calmed sea in Bilbo's tales, arms twined around Sam's back, fingers combing gently through his hair. Sam sighed and bit gently at the curve of Frodo's neck, making Frodo whimper and push up against him a little harder. There hadn't been time before to do this, to find all the spots where a touch or a kiss could draw gasps and moans; the sheer urgency of his need and Frodo's had been too great. There was time now.

Frodo's movements quickened a little as Sam licked at his neck; sucking on that spot produced the most wonderful jolt, a quickening of breath to match his movements, and Sam went with him, letting his slow thrusts gradually speed. Frodo was moaning softly now, holding Sam's head where it was, protesting inarticulately when Sam lifted his head for a kiss. Sam laughed and moved obediently back downward, covering the line of Frodo's throat with light kisses and gentle bites, until Frodo wrapped his legs around Sam's waist and pushed upward with an impatient exclamation.

Oh, anything you want, anything…

"Sam, harder," Frodo pleaded; but he did not, Sam thought with a smile, specify exactly what he wanted done harder, so Sam bit harder at his throat and kept his rhythm as it was. Frodo sucked in a sharp breath and his fingers tightened in Sam's hair. "Tease," he muttered.

"You love it," Sam informed him, and hoped he was right.

"Mm, I do, but… oh, Sam, you… ah, yes, like that -"

More, then, and faster, until Frodo was sobbing and driving hard against Sam, one hand buried in Sam's hair and the other raking down his back, tense with the effort of control. "Oh, don't, don't hold back, you're beautiful when you come," Sam whispered. Frodo's hands clenched into fists on him, and Sam lifted himself a little when he felt Frodo's thrusts become uneven and urgent. Frodo was gulping for air now, cries becoming louder and more desperate, and Sam fought for control of his own.

"Oh, Sam, Sam, I -" and Sam watched every flickering change of expression with rapt fascination as Frodo shook and cried out and dug his fingers into Sam's back with bruising force. Then it was all more than his precariously balanced self-control could take and he buried his face in Frodo's neck again, crying out Frodo's name as pleasure flooded through him in a brilliant white wash.

After a while he felt Frodo shift and moved with him, but didn't open his eyes until the bedside candle flared into life. Frodo's skin was lit with the soft red-orange glow of the flame; Sam smiled and ran a hand up Frodo's arm as Frodo curled beside him, sitting with his hand braced on one side of Sam's chest and his knees tucked into the other, smiling back down at him.

Oh, I don't care what this brings down on our heads. I don't. There's nothing this isn't worth.

"How did it get dark so fast?" Frodo wondered, then closed his eyes and somehow managed to give what looked like every muscle in his body a long, catlike stretch without actually moving.

"And where did the day go," Sam added, then winced as Frodo turned a little toward the light. "Ah, I didn't mean to bite that hard," he said in chagrin, lifting a hand to the base of Frodo's neck.

Frodo laughed and caught Sam's hand in his. "I liked it. And I don't mind the mark. I'll wear my collars up for a few days, that's all." He brought Sam's hand to his mouth and kissed it softly, and said, quietly, "I love you, you know."

Sam smiled and moved his fingers to caress Frodo's cheek. "Aye, and I love you."

"Do you…" Frodo took a deep breath and didn't quite look at Sam. "Do you like this? I know you said in a way it was better before -"

"Ah, no, that was just… just me wishing things could be easier for us, is all. I don't think I could stand to not be able to touch you anymore, not now that we've started on it."

Frodo frowned and made a slow, dubious humming sound. "I don't think that answered my question."

"Then let me answer it again." Sam tugged at Frodo's hand, drawing Frodo down to stretch out beside him. "Yes, I like this, being here with you like this. I love it as much as I love you, and that's saying something."

"Good," Frodo murmured.

"Does this mean you'll not be passing me off to the Widow Chubb, then?"

Frodo laughed ruefully. "Not if you want to stay, meleth. But it might be easier, in a way -"

"Aye, but it'd be harder in so many others that it don't seem worth it."

Frodo's arm tightened around him. "Stay with me, then," he whispered, and didn't seem to be talking about the garden anymore.

"As long as you want me." Sam turned a little closer to Frodo and stroked his hair. "You have to understand, though - no matter what I call you here in this bed, or where we know for a fact it's just the two of us, I still have to call you Mr. Frodo when we're not in private."

"And will that keep people from knowing?"

"No. One candle lit in the whole of Bag End, and that in your bedroom, is enough right there to write it across the sky like one of Mr. Gandalf's fireworks. But it'll let people pretend not to see if that's what they want to do."

"Only the rooms on this side of the hallway have windows. The whole smial on the other side could be one big blaze of light for all anyone else knows."

"It's not me you need to make your case to, love, I'm only telling you what people will see. They'll be slower to catch on, maybe, than they would if one of us was a lass, but…" He trailed off and kissed Frodo on the top of the head, laughing softly.

Frodo smiled. "What's funny?"

"I was thinking of what the Gaffer'll say when he finds out about this. 'Have you lost your mind, boy? That's the son of the House!' is how he'll start out, and then he'll say a great many other things, but after he's done scolding and he's fetched me a ding or two round the ear with the flat of his hand -"

"Sam! Would he -"

"Not hard enough to really hurt me, sweeting, never mind it - then when he's done with all that he'll find himself telling me that if I don't take good care of you he'll give me worse than a smack in the head, and then he'll be madder at himself than he'll be at me."

Frodo laughed and kissed Sam's fingertips. "Really… but you said when he finds out."

"Oh, he will. He's as canny about people as he is about plants, the Gaffer is; and he knows me, and knows you better than you might think. For all I know he's seen this coming for years, or it may be he's known since he came back from the Cotton farm."

"Maybe everyone has, and we've worried for nothing," Frodo said wistfully.

He so clearly didn't believe it himself that Sam only kissed him again and whispered, "Maybe. Are you hungry?"

"Starving," Frodo answered, sounding a little surprised.

"Me too. Up with you, then, and I'll make dinner for us."

"Mmm, but my clothes are all the way over there."

"You stay here then. I'll make dinner and bring it in to you."

"No, I'll help." Frodo crawled across Sam - a process that took some time - gathered up Sam's clothes and tossed them to him, and began to get dressed. Sam dressed too, then reached out and gathered Frodo to him.

"Aye, I like this," he whispered into Frodo's hair.

"So do I," Frodo answered, and touched his lips lightly to Sam's; only resting them there, but it was a surprisingly intimate thing nonetheless. "Dinner."

"Dinner," Sam agreed, and let Frodo pull him down the hall.

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