The clouds rolled in before Sam had finished pruning the roses; a light patter of rain began just as he had finished weeding the begonias, and as he was in the middle of setting a new bed for the azaleas the sky had opened up and begun sheeting down rain. Grumbling a little under his breath, Sam whipped the corner of a tarp over his tools. Well, a little wet never hurt anyone, he thought; he'd helped the Gaffer trim verge in rain this bad, no reason to stop working before he was done with this one task. So he thought, at any rate, before a cloak descended abruptly over him and Frodo crouched down next to him, chafing his arms and shivering in the sudden cold. "Sam, what are you doing? It's pouring. Come inside." In the brief time it had taken him to get from the door to the garden Frodo had gotten soaked to the skin, white shirt plastered to transparency against his arms and chest, water dripping into his eyes from unruly tendrils of hair; it was just like him to have brought a cloak for Sam but not thought to get one for himself. Sam whipped the cloak out from around his shoulders and settled it around Frodo, who took it back off and put it back around Sam, and there was a brief, laughing, reverse tug-of-war before Sam abruptly realized that, in the first place, he had no business scuffling with the Master as if he were one of the Cotton boys; and in the second, Mr. Frodo was likely to catch his death out here in the pouring rain and chill wind. He caught up his tools with one hand and Frodo with the other and the two of them raced back to the hole. In the hall, Frodo caught Sam's arm and grabbed a towel off of the bench next to the door. "You're dripping, Sam," he laughed. "Come here." Before Sam could protest, Frodo had flung the towel over his hair and begun scrubbing it dry. Around the sound of cloth against hair, Sam heard Frodo let out a shivery breath between his teeth, and something twisted abruptly in his stomach. He reached up to catch Frodo's hands, stilling them, and drew the towel down around his neck as he reached past Frodo for a dry one. "Bless you, Mr. Frodo, you're that wet," he scolded as he dried Frodo's hair, fingers sticking to drenched, mossy curls. "Look at you, dripping on the floor, whyever didn't you stay in here where it's warm and dry? You'll catch your death!" "And what about you, Sam, out there in the garden in the mud and pouring rain? What possessed you not to just come inside?" Frodo held out an arm obediently as Sam rubbed his shirt-sleeve with the towel, trying to soak up the water. "I was almost finished." Sam moved to the other arm, clucking under his breath, and then wrapped the towel around Frodo's shoulders and began drying off his back. "Yes, but you might have --" Frodo moved one way and the towel moved another, and Frodo's words cut off as he stumbled toward Sam, one hand coming up to lay flat on Sam's chest to avert a fall. Between the shock of the contact and the shock of his cold, wet shirt being pushed against his skin, Sam couldn't breathe for a moment. "Sorry, Mr. Frodo," he managed, and why in the world was he whispering? Frodo regained his balance and met Sam's gaze, not moving back. There was a brief silence, during which Sam felt as if he'd turned into a tree and taken root and Frodo didn't look any too inclined to move either. Then Frodo's lips parted, and Sam wondered unhappily if there was really some reason why Frodo's mouth had to look so soft and inviting that it was a struggle not to lean in and -- well, not to steal a kiss as he might from laughing, playful Rosie, because he got the distinct impression that kissing Frodo would be another matter entirely. Have you lost your senses, standing here thinking about kissing Mr. Frodo? shrieked a horrified voice in his head; and Frodo's hand lifted to his nose, his face crinkled up, and he sneezed some eight times in rapid succession, galvanizing Sam into horrified action. "Mr. Frodo, you really will get ill, now. Just you stay here and --" "Sam, I'm fine," Frodo protested, laughing. Pure relief made Sam laugh too. "You're not, you're shivering." "I am not," Frodo informed him, in such blatant despite of the evidence that Sam spluttered a little. "You are. Look, and you're all wet still." A droplet of rainwater slid down the hair over Frodo's eyes to land on his nose; without thinking, Sam reached out a thumb to wipe it off. "Let me run you a hot bath --" "Only if you join me in it," Frodo said, clearly without thinking, and then froze. Completely at a loss, Sam finished wiping away the raindrop, and then had no idea what to do with his hand. Frodo looked away and moved back a little, relieving Sam of the towel. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said quietly. "That was a little inappropriate, I suppose." "Never mind, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered, and then wondered why his voice was shaking. "I can take a joke as well as the next person, I hope." Frodo's smile barely touched the corners of his mouth, and didn't reach his eyes at all. "Joke. Yes. Listen, there's a fire in the parlor. Let's go sit by it and dry off." Sam trailed Frodo into the parlor. "Mr. Frodo, really, you should go put on dry clothes." "None of my clothes will fit you, Sam, and I've no mind to be warm and dry while you're wet and shivering. The fire will dry us out soon enough." Frodo disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two glasses and a bottle, setting them down on the hearth-rug beside Sam. "Here. Have a drink." "Mr. Frodo, that's Mr. Bilbo's Old Winyards!" Sam exclaimed, scandalized. Frodo looked up from pouring, frowning in puzzlement. "Don't you like Old Winyards? Because I can get something else --" "No, no, that's not it. I've never had it, I can't say whether I'd like it or no. But you want to keep this for company, for Quality --" Frodo's frown deepened. "Sam, you take this gardener concept far and away too seriously. I don't want to keep it for anyone in particular, and I can't at any rate think of anyone who's more deserving of it than you. My aunts don't drink it, and Merry and Pippin get the ale and like it or they'd drink me out of house and home. Surely you don't expect me to drink my way through Bilbo's entire cellar all by myself. Now here, take it, and for heaven's sake stop worrying about not being good enough for the wine." Sam looked at the firelight-shadows that Frodo's lashes cast on his cheek, and said, without thinking, "As long as I'm good enough for Rosie." The wine bottle paused on its way to Frodo's glass, just for a moment, and then came very carefully to rest with its neck on the rim of the glass. "Rosie... Cotton?" Frodo asked in an oddly toneless voice. Sam felt himself go scarlet, and for some reason wished with all his heart that he hadn't said anything. "Yes, sir." "Farmer Cotton's daughter?" "Yes, sir." That wine glass was getting awfully full. "The two of you have an understanding of some sort, do you?" "Well... no, sir, not as such," Sam answered, and wondered why, given that they were talking about his beloved Rosie, he was so desperately unhappy. "But you love her." It was hard to answer. Why was it hard to answer? "That I do, sir," he managed finally. Frodo set the bottle down, sat back, and drained the entire glass at a gulp. Sam stared in astonishment as Frodo reached for the bottle again and poured another brimming glassful. "Do you know, Sam, I think I will go get changed and dried off," he said tightly. "I'll be back in a minute." A minute passed, then several, and finally Sam told himself that he ought to go and see what Mr. Frodo would be wanting for supper, since it was still pouring out and he might as well stay here and make himself useful instead of walking home in the rain. Feeling oddly nervous, he went down the hall to Frodo's bedroom door and raised his hand to knock. A sharp report stopped him cold and made his heart jar in his chest; and by the time he'd identified the sound as a glass shattering against a wall, it had been replaced by soft, muffled sobs so drenched in misery that tears stung Sam's eyes as well. He could have knocked. He could have left. What he did instead was open his hand and set it flat against the door, leaning his forehead against the cold wood, wondering wretchedly how things had gotten into such a tangle. He meant to whisper Rosie's name like a talisman, but the word his mouth formed was Frodo.   Sam's clothes were dry and supper nearly finished by the time Frodo emerged from the bedroom, rolling his sleeves up with brisk, efficient movements, and there was no trace left on his face of the tears that Sam had heard. But he didn't quite look at Sam, his movements were stiff and formal, and his voice when he spoke was reserved; and oh, Sam was heartsick, and he didn't understand why. "That smells good. What are you making?" "Mushroom omelettes, Mr. Frodo." Your favorite. Will you look at me now? Frodo didn't. "You're an excellent cook, Sam. It'll take a load of work off from Rosie when you're married." His voice was the tiniest bit waspish, and Sam's response was sharper than he meant it to be. "There's no call to be talking of that, Mr. Frodo. She has to say yes too, you know, and... and I'm not ready to marry yet." He hadn't known it was true until he said it; but it was, and where did that leave him? He wanted badly to ask Frodo what was wrong and didn't dare. Frodo picked up the bottle on the table, pulled a glass out of the cabinet, and poured himself another drink. His hand was a little unsteady, and Sam bit his tongue to keep from asking if Frodo didn't think he'd had enough to drink for one night. "But you will be. And she'll say yes, of course she will. Who wouldn't?" "Any number of lasses," Sam answered crossly. "Name one." Sam gave him the first name that popped into his head. "That Mrs. Sackville-Baggins, that great-aunt of yours, or whatever she is," he answered, and a fine spray of wine blew across the kitchen. Frodo sat down at the table, leaned his head on his hand, and laughed until tears came to his eyes, and Sam's heart eased a little. "Oh, Sam," he gasped finally. "I don't know why that's so funny, but it is." Sam slid the omelettes onto plates and went to sit down across from Frodo. "Eat up, Mr. Frodo. Some food in your stomach'll stave off a cold." And soak up the wine, he thought but didn't say. Frodo's good humor didn't last as long as Sam would have liked. By halfway through supper his eyes were shadowed and brooding; by the time they picked up their drinks and went back into the parlor, he had stopped looking at Sam again. For one frustrated minute Sam wanted to catch Frodo's chin in his hand and say look at me, for pity's sake; but he didn't. Frodo sank into one of the chairs by the fire, rubbing the back of his hand over his forehead. "Your head hurts, doesn't it, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked gently. "There, now, you've worn your eyes out with... with reading, haven't you?" Frodo looked up at that, focusing his gaze some eighteen inches to the left of Sam's shoulder. "No, I... yes. Too much reading, that's all." Before he could stop himself, Sam rose and moved around to the back of Frodo's chair, settling gentle fingertips on his master's temples and rubbing. Frodo sighed, tilting his head back like a cat having its ears scratched. "Mmm," he murmured. "That feels good, Sam." Sam wasn't quite sure what to say, and rather felt that he'd said quite enough for one night in any case, so he continued working away the tension stored in Frodo's temples and forehead. "Sam..." "Yes, sir?" Sam asked quietly. Frodo gave that small jerk of his chin that meant that he was trying to keep his emotions under control, and Sam wondered what could possibly be going on inside of his head. "What's it like to love someone the way you love Rosie?" Sam flushed. "I couldn't rightly say, Mr. Frodo." Frodo's hand tightened on his glass. "Do you think about her all the time? Is she the first thought in your mind when you wake, and the last when you go to sleep?" There was an odd intensity underlying his voice, and Sam wished heartily that he knew what was going on. "Sometimes, sir." "And you can't look at her hair without wanting to wind your fingers in it..." Sam's fingertips rubbed gently over Frodo's forehead, soft locks of raven hair spilling over his hands. "Yes, sir," he said, not knowing what else to say. "And when you're with her but can't touch her, it's like a burn, wanting to take her in your arms, like your skin has been rubbed raw..." Sam's fingers stilled; the world tilted around him in a thoroughly unpleasant manner, and all he could think was Oh, Valar, who? Who is he so in love with? And why can't it be... ...me...? Oh, no. No, no. Oh, Sam, you great git, you haven't gone and fallen in love with the Master... "Sam. Please. Tell me what it feels like." Sam swallowed hard, and couldn't stop himself from saying: "When you're hurting like this, and you won't look at me, and I can't touch you... I can't breathe, Frodo. Oh, look at me, please." "Sam, I --" Frodo began wearily, then trailed off. The evening's conversation replayed itself in a flash in Sam's memory, and a sudden thought went from horrified speculation to gut-twisting certainty in half a second. Feeling as if he'd taken a punch to the solar plexus, he moved around the chair and knelt in front of it, covering one of Frodo's hands with his. And there weren't enough deep breaths in the world to see him through this, but he took one anyway, and said what was possibly the hardest thing he'd ever said. "Mr. Frodo... I did say as I loved her, and I meant it, but... but I'll not stand in your way." Frodo did look at him then, scowling in bewilderment. "You won't... what?" Oh, if I lose both of them... "Stand in your way. With Rosie." "With --" Frodo's face went still, caught in some odd expression halfway between amusement and abject misery. "With Rosie. You think I'm in love with your Rosie." Sam closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, wanting more than anything to go home, get into bed, pull the covers over his head, and not come out until midsummer. "Aren't you? I thought that was what this was all about." "No." "Then what?" he blurted in exasperation. "Begging your pardon, sir, and maybe it's something that's none of my business, but " "But?" Frodo asked softly as Sam trailed off. "But but you're unhappy and I don't know what to do," Sam said miserably. Frodo was out of the chair in a flash and moving past Sam to the small table on which Sam had set the wine. "You aren't responsible for my happiness, Sam," he said in a thin, brittle voice as he poured. Sam ground his teeth in frustration and moved to stand by Frodo. "Well, it feels like I am," he said stubbornly. "And don't you think you've had enough to drink, sir, begging your pardon again?" "On the contrary, Sam, I intend to work up a rather spectacular drunk front and I'm a bit behindhand at the moment. And kindly stop begging my pardon. I hereby pardon you in advance for anything you might say tonight." Something snapped in Sam and he reached out, grabbed the cup out of Frodo's hand, and slapped it down onto the table, sloshing wine over his hand. "Pardon this, then, Frodo Baggins. If you don't stay out of the wine and tell me what it is I've done to upset you so, so help me, I'll –" Frodo couldn't have looked much more taken aback if the table had sprouted teeth and bitten him. "You'll what?" "Well, I don't know, but give me a minute and I'll think of something. And get sacked into the bargain, like as not, and it serves me right for talking out of place; but it's clear as daylight that it's me you're mad at, or something I've done or I've said, and it's not right for you not to tell me why and give me a chance to fix things." Frodo let out a breath and covered his eyes with his hands, wavering a bit unsteadily on his feet. "Where can I even start with this, Sam? It's not your fault, it's not something that can be fixed, and no, I can't tell you." "Why can't you tell me?" "Because sometimes keeping silent causes less pain than speaking. It would only hurt both of us, Sam, let it go. And give me my wine back." Sam got to the cup first and moved it back out of Frodo's reach. "Let it go? All evening you've been that miserable you'd think you'd lost your best friend –" "I think I have, and if that were all I'd lost I don't think I'd be half as miserable as I am." "What have you lost, then?" Frodo shook his head and rubbed his fingertips over his forehead, shoulders slumping, looking so desperately unhappy that Sam's throat closed. "A dream, that's all," he said, so quietly that Sam could barely hear him. "Less than that. One bare scrap of hope for something that even I knew it was ridiculous to want, but I couldn't stop wanting it with every breath I drew. And I still want it, with all my soul I want it, even when there's no hope left." For a minute Sam only stared at Frodo, appalled. "And how does this have to do with me?" he asked when he could speak again. He thought he understood but wasn't sure; and if he ever found out who in the Shire was mad enough not to love his beautiful Frodo back, he was going to sit the little fool down and give her what for. "What has it to do with you?" Frodo echoed hollowly. "Nothing, Sam. Nothing. Nothing in the world to do with you." Now, why in the world did that sting so much? "I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't mean –" Frodo sighed and dropped his hand to his side in a brief gesture of resignation. "I've been poor company and a poorer host. My apologies. I'm a little upset tonight." "You don't say," Sam answered dryly, and was rewarded with the smallest of smiles, flashing briefly over Frodo's face. "You don't need to apologize like I was someone you had to entertain, Mr. Frodo." "No. I need to apologize as if you were someone who deserved better of me than this, which you are." "Oh, tell me what's wrong," Sam said gently, reaching to catch Frodo's hand in his, and sternly ignoring the small insistent voice telling him that once he had hold of that hand he ought to keep pulling until he was holding the rest of Frodo too. "It tears at me to see you like this. Please, I can't bear it. Tell me what's wrong and let me worry about whether it'll hurt me or not." Rain drove against the windows, far too loud in the tense silence. Frodo lifted a trembling hand and touched the backs of two fingers carefully to Sam's cheek, drawing them slowly down along his jaw, barely brushing against his lower lip, running back up to trace the line of his ear as deliberately as if he had all night to do nothing but this one terribly important thing. The touch of that hand trailed fire along Sam's skin, set his heart pounding, and he though, rather incoherently, Is this ? Oh, please, let it "Mr. Frodo –" he whispered. Frodo flinched as if he'd been struck; but his hand never stopped its gentle exploration, running now into Sam's hair, threading curls through his fingertips. "Don't say it, Sam, I know. I understand." "You don't understand anything," Sam blurted. "Not anything. And neither did I, not 'til it was almost too late." Frodo closed his eyes and forced a laugh, fingers brushing down the bridge of Sam's nose. "Dear Sam, what are you talking about?" Uncertainty flooded Sam in a hot wash. What was he talking about? It was one thing to be besotted with Frodo – oh, admit it, Sam, you love him – one thing to have his breath taken away by that fine porcelain beauty, by those deep unexpected wells of strength and vulnerability, by a mind and a heart that glowed like the morning; but to believe that Frodo might love him, Frodo who could have had anyone, that he might want Sam whose speech was rough and hands were rougher What am I thinking? "I I don't know. Maybe I don't rightly understand either." With startling suddenness Frodo was gone, leaving Sam to blink dazedly at the air where he had been. When he heard the back door close, Sam sighed and went into the hallway to fetch a cloak. He found Frodo in the back garden, arms folded on his chest, eyes closed, face tipped upward to the pouring rain as though he meant to wash himself clean – or to drown himself, one of the two. Sam went up to him and draped the cloak around his shoulders; but Frodo hadn't heard him coming, and startled so badly that for a moment Sam thought he was going to fall. On pure instinct, Sam reached out and caught his master tightly to him, forestalling that tumble; but now he had an armful of wet, shivering, miserable Frodo, and he was distinctly of two minds about what to do about that situation. Because he felt he had to do something, he leaned in toward Frodo's ear, raising his voice over the sound of the storm. "Come inside, Mr. Frodo, you're going to catch your death." Frodo shook his head stubbornly. He was so slender that Sam always thought of him as smaller than he actually was, but at this distance his eyes were very nearly on a level with Sam's own. "Go back in. I'll be there in a minute." "No, you won't. You'll stay out here being wretched until you fall asleep on your feet and die of a chill. Whatever it is that's troubling you, it's not worth all this wetness and misery." Frodo touched his hand to Sam's cheek, very gently. "Yes, it is," he whispered. "It's worth all my life, everything I could give, if only that were enough." Sam lifted a hand to push sopping hair back out of Frodo's face. Frodo closed his eyes, turning his face into Sam's hand, then moved reluctantly a bare inch away. Something in that small, abortive gesture so filled Sam's heart that he felt as if it might burst, and he didn't know if it was with love or grief. He tasted rain, and it took him a moment to realize that he was tasting it on Frodo's mouth. Frodo gave a soft cry that sounded like protest but drew Sam closer, shivering against him. His mouth was like ice against Sam's; Sam took it upon himself to warm every bit of that mouth that he could reach, folding Frodo tightly in the cloak and in his arms. Just as Sam was beginning to lose sight entirely of the fact that rain was drenching both of them, Frodo pulled back, pressing his forehead to Sam's. "Sam Rosie –" "Isn't you," Sam whispered. "But you love her, you said you did." "And for all I know she thinks no more of me than she would of a carthorse, and do you think there isn't enough love in me for the both of you?" Sam pressed his lips to Frodo's cheek, marveling at the eagerness with which Frodo turned to claim his mouth again. "Mr. Frodo, you really will get ill, now. Look at you, you're like a drowned rat, come inside." "No," Frodo whispered. "No, Sam, kiss me." "I can kiss you just as well inside where it's warm and dry. Come on, now, I'll never forgive myself if you get ill." "I love you, Sam." "I love you too," Sam said, and suddenly wanted to laugh; both at the sheer exhilaration of hearing those words, and at the realization that he'd never again be able to contradict Ted Sandyman when he said that Frodo didn't have sense enough to come in out of the rain. Bless him, Frodo really would stand out here kissing and talking about love until they both caught their deaths, and Sam adored him for it. As he built up the fire in Frodo's bedroom, Sam saw Frodo wrap a blanket around himself, shaking so hard that his teeth chattered. Have to get him out of those wet clothes, Sam thought automatically; and then colored with something like delighted, mortified horror before he thought, greatly daring: Well, and why not? Before he could move, though, Frodo came to kneel behind him, brushing aside his hair to kiss the back of his neck in a way that made him shiver. "You're all wet, Sam," Frodo murmured. "So are you, Mr. Frodo." "You must be cold." Frodo's hand slipped over Sam's shoulder to undo the top button of his shirt. Sam started. "Cor, your hands are like ice! You need to get out of your clothes and –" "Into a warm bed?" Frodo breathed in his ear, nipping softly at his earlobe. Sam turned to him and drew him closer. "Come here, you're shivering," he scolded, unbuttoning the top few buttons of Frodo's shirt and pulling it off over his head. His fingers combed gently through damp, unruly hair that stuck to everything – his own hands, Frodo's face, the soft curve of his neck. "What possessed you to walk out into the rain like that I'm sure I'll never know." "I was upset. And a little drunk." He began unbuttoning Sam's shirt, running his fingertips along Sam's chest. "I'm not anymore, though. There's nothing like standing in an icy cloudburst to sober a person up." Sam touched his fingertips to Frodo's chin and tilted it upward, bringing Frodo's gaze back to his. "Not drunk anymore," he said softly. "But are you still upset?" He ran his hand over Frodo's shoulder and down his arm, and even rough with goose bumps and shivering that skin felt like silk to him. "I'm cold," Frodo answered, returning his attention to Sam's buttons. Sam leaned to brush his lips softly across Frodo's forehead. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes," he whispered. "No," Frodo said, so sharply that Sam blinked in surprise. "You first." Well, that answered that question, Sam thought with a sigh. "All right, Mr. Frodo, if you –" "I hate it when you call me that," Frodo said in a thin, quiet voice, easing Sam's shirt off his shoulders. Sam shrugged off the shirt and caught Frodo's chin in his hand. "Why are you so angry?" he asked simply. Frodo opened his mouth, then looked away, into the fire. "I don't know. Because we're here, doing this. Because I can't have you and I can't not. Because I'm – I'm whoring myself for –" Sam's hand tightened and he pulled Frodo's chin back to face him, none too gently. "Is that what you think of me?" he demanded. "No. Not of you." "Then –" Frodo's mouth on his suddenly, silencing him. "Sam, don't," Frodo whispered. "Don't. Make love to me, now, right here on the floor, and then go away and leave me alone and tomorrow we'll pretend none of this ever happened –" "No! We'll do this right or by all the Shire we'll not do it at all." The smile that twisted Frodo's mouth held a bitter, mocking humor that was worse than no humor at all. "And what might 'right' be, my dear Sam, whom I've wanted for so long that I can barely remember now when I didn't?" "Well, 'right' starts with you letting go of whatever it is that's got you so furious with you or me or both of us –" "But it's not mine to let go of. That's the whole point." Sam closed his eyes for a long moment, then sighed and cupped Frodo's face between his hands. "Let's talk this out tomorrow. You're too angry to think straight and I don't think you're sober." "Oh, I can think straight. I –" His hand rose to Sam's face, thumb stroking lightly – "love you. You love someone else. Loving someone else, you are here on my bedroom floor, half undressed, and I am about to take you to bed. The situation is therefore worse in nearly every way than it was when I could only watch you and wish that I could touch you like this. You see how clearly and logically one thought follows another?" "It's not like that at all –" "Of all the things I ever thought I might come to be, that I might end up an unsatisfactory substitute for Rosie Cotton never quite occurred to me, Sam dear, and you can't expect me to be happy about it." Sam slid an arm around Frodo's waist and stood, lifting Frodo to his feet. "I'm going home now, Mr. Frodo, and you're going to sleep this off –" "Are you sure you're leaving?" Frodo whispered, twining his arms around Sam's neck and trailing slow kisses along his jaw, pressing against him in a way that made Sam swallow hard. "Frodo, please. Stop this." "I could have you if I wanted, Sam," Frodo breathed in his ear, breath followed by a light flick of his tongue. "But I couldn't keep you. So go home." Then he was gone, into who knew what recesses of Bag End; and Sam stood in front of the fire, hands raked into his hair, for a long time before he put his shirt on and left.   Of all the difficult things Sam had ever had to do, just opening his eyes the next morning had to be very close to the top of the list; and for the first time in his life he seriously considered pleading illness and staying in bed. However, thorough examination of his physical condition – though it revealed any number of things not operating at anything like peak efficiency – failed to reveal any evidence of actual illness; so, unwillingly, he dragged himself out of bed and dressed, wincing at the sunlight in his eyes. "At Bag End again today, are you?" the Gaffer asked at breakfast. "Am, Dad," Sam mumbled into his bacon. Then a thought occurred to him and he looked up. "You're doing the Whitfoots' gardens today, aren't you? Those gardens are fair big, and between the rain and your rheumatism, maybe you ought to take Bag End and I'll go to Michel Delving." The Gaffer set his fork down, glanced out into the hall, then turned back to Sam. "Son, what happened between you and Himself last night?" Sam choked on his bacon. "Here, lad, take a drink. Come on, now, give over. I've never seen you go to Bag End but you had a smile on your face, and here you are trying to get out of it. And if you think I didn't hear you slamming in last night like you were ready to punch holes in the walls, best you think again. What happened?" "Oh, Da," Sam said wretchedly, leaning his head on the tea mug in his hands. "I can't tell you and I don't know as I'd even know where to start, but it was bad. Scary bad, and I think I've lost worse than my job." The Gaffer looked down and picked his fork back up, twirling it aimlessly in his scrambled eggs. "Told him about Rosie, did you?" Sam blinked, unable to do more than stare. He'd always known how perceptive the Gaffer was, but this rode the ragged edge of downright uncanny. "Didn't take it well, did he? I was afraid he wouldn't." "Da, how did you –" "I have eyes in my head, boy, even if you don't. Sam, you'll have to choose. Rosie's a dear lass, but Mr. Frodo's something you don't come across more than once in a lifetime, and neither of them's going to brook sharing." "Oh, Da. Tell me I haven't messed things up as bad as I think I have," Sam said miserably. "There's only one person can tell you that, son, and he's not in Michel Delving."   He wasn't at Bag End either. For a minute Sam nearly panicked; then he forced himself to calm and scoured the smial, turning up neither Frodo nor a note. All right then, he thought, standing in the parlor with his hands braced on the mantel. Think, Sam Gamgee. Where's the first place he would have gone? Buckland, or I'm a Sandyman. Oh, no, that's two days' walk in fair weather, let alone in a storm – how many hours' start has he got on me, let's see Voices on the doorstep made him jump half out of his skin, and he barely had time to straighten before the front door burst open and Merry and Pippin tumbled into the front hall with arms full of provender, laughing and talking so rapidly that for a moment Sam couldn't even process what they were saying. " – wasn't worth more than a halfpenny each and if I hadn't stopped you you'd have paid – Come on, Frodo," Pippin shouted over his shoulder. "Oh, hullo, Sam. Be nice to Frodo today, he has a miserable hangover. He even drank Merry's tea this morning, and you have to be pretty desperate to do that." Merry freed a hand from the vegetables he was carrying and smacked Pippin good-naturedly in the back of the head. Frodo came in behind them and kicked the door closed, balancing a carton of eggs on top of an armful of bread loaves, and Sam's heart slammed painfully against his rib cage. Frodo looked bruised and fragile, and his face closed for just a second when he caught sight of Sam. Then, with considerably more composure than Sam felt capable of, he said "Good morning, Sam," and headed for the kitchen. "Morning –" Sam said, and got only that far before he remembered Frodo saying I hate it when you call me that. Well, what else am I supposed to call him? Sam thought dismally, and sighed. "I'll just be getting to work in the garden, then," he said to the empty parlor.   It was almost lunchtime before he felt hungry enough to take a break and grounded enough to take his hands out of the soil. Going home for lunch meant facing Frodo to tell him; but the situation had to be faced sooner or later, and if Frodo was strong enough to carry it off with aplomb even in the face of a dreadful hangover, then so was Sam. He packed up his tools, wiped his hands clean, and went inside. Voices took him to the back parlor, where Merry and Pippin were talking quietly for once. The reason why became apparent when Sam walked into the room – Frodo was curled on the couch, head in Merry's lap and feet in Pippin's, fast asleep and looking as if he might shatter if he were woken too suddenly. "Off for lunch, Sam?" Merry asked in a voice that was no less cheery for being hushed. Sam looked at Merry's fingers idly stroking Frodo's hair and swallowed. "Yes, sir. When Mr. Frodo wakes, can you tell him I'll be back this afternoon?" "I wouldn't count on him being awake before then, but I'll tell him. I don't know what set him off last night, but he'll be lucky to be recovered from it by a week from Tuesday." "Too bad the storm held us up on the road," Pippin said with a yawn. "We could have joined him. Then we'd all have been miserable and poor Sam would have had to make us pot after pot of obscenely strong tea." "I'll just be off, then," Sam whispered, turning his eyes away from Frodo's face.     Next Chapter Back to Rain Back to the fanfics page Back to the home page