Work Text:
Confound and be-bother it. He'd forgotten to light the lamps again.
Sam clucked in dismay at his woolly-headedness as he felt his way down the dark hallway that ran the length of the hole. Should he stop, and do it now? he wondered. He cast a glance over his shoulder and shook his head. Better not. Bath water wouldn't hold hot for any hobbit - not even the Master of Bag End.
A little way along, sunlight slid through the thin gap in a doorway, painting a golden streak across the hallway floor and up the opposite wall. He stopped just short of the glowing line, the hairs of his toes glinting in the reflected light, and shut his eyes for a moment, just as he always did. He didn't need to look beyond the door to know what he would see.
At this hour, the late afternoon sunlight would filter through the delicate tracery of honeysuckle that framed the window. It would pour like warm honey across the polished floor, and dust motes would play hide-go-seek in the shimmering air above it. It would glance off the faded golden runes on books and scrolls that littered every flat surface in the room - piled high like a dragon's hoard. He often thought that here was the real wealth of Bag End. Knowledge - not mewed up in musty libraries, but nurtured and cherished for its own sake. He made himself dwell on this fancy for a moment, before the eyes of his memory continued its circuit around the room.
The flickering light of the hearthfire would meet the sunshine halfway, and where they melded into one, there he would be, his dark head bent over Master Bilbo's old desk, his softly rounded bottom planted in the Master's old chair. A treasure, dearer than crowns, more beautiful than dwarf-forged mithril, and - just as unreachable to Sam Gamgee as such baubles were. If only...
He shook his head briskly and plucked himself out of his dreaming with a sigh. Ninnyhammer, he muttered under his breath, and pushed the door open all the way.
His eyes widened, and his breath caught in his chest.
Wonder of wonders - Mr. Frodo wasn't hard at his books after all. He sat at the desk, but with his chin cupped in his hand, staring out the window at the garden, at the garden Sam had made for him, and on his face was a soft half-smile.
Sam's undisciplined heart leapt up to clog his throat. The image he carried in his memory broke apart, dissolved, and reformed, irrevocably changed. He would always remember the room this way now. He would always remember him - the perfect profile, so un-hobbit-like, pale against the dark wood of the desk, eyes of corn-flower blue lost in some elvish dream. What did he dream about? Who did he dream of? And if he chose to believe that Frodo smiled at memories of their loving, whyever not? It was his remembering, after all.
Frodo turned his head at the creak of the door. His eyes were glazed, his mind still wherever he was before, and the rosy lips were parted round in startlement. The eyes cleared and warmed, and the surprise slid into a welcoming smile - but only for a moment. Then Frodo's face held nothing but an inquiring arch to his brows and the warm regard of a master for a well-loved servant. Nothing more.
"Yes, Sam?"
Well, I suppose not, Sam thought dispiritedly. His heart sank back to where it belonged. His wanting was making him see things that weren't there. This wouldn't do; not at all - and especially not if he wished to work for Mr. Frodo still. And he did - oh, he did. Just to be near him and care for him was all he asked for. Not that the master would want to keep him on, if he went about like a moon-calf with its head stuck in the clouds. His work was mucked about enough as it was. So. No more of that, Sam Gamgee.
"Mr. Frodo, your bath's ready," he said, his voice bright with determined cheer. "And the water'll get cold if you don't come right quick, Sir."
Frodo shot a quick look out the window at the gathering dusk and frowned. "Is it that late already? I hadn't noticed, and I've wasted most of the afternoon, it seems."
"You oughtn't to spend so much time at your books, Mr. Frodo, " Sam said reprovingly. "It's a lovely day out - well, it was," he amended, glancing out at the fading light. "You'll get all stooped and round-shouldered at this rate, sir - even Mr. Bilbo, bless 'im, always took a turn out in the sun, like. You need to smell the roses, so to speak. If I may say so. Mr. Frodo. Sir."
For a moment, there was a strange, tight look on Frodo's fair face, then his master took a deep breath of the scent-laden air and smiled. "I can smell the roses fine from in here, Sam, but you're right," he sighed. "I'll be a proper land-hobbit tomorrow, I promise. It's just that Bilbo seemed so near today, somehow. There were so many things I needed to ask him... " Frodo shook his head. "But there, you'll think me another Mad Baggins at this rate. I was just wool-gathering - don't pay me any mind."
He got to his feet and staggered, clutching convulsively at the edge of the desk with a cry of pain. Sam leapt forward, his arms outstretched to counter the fall he saw coming, but Frodo recovered quickly and looked at him with watering eyes.
"My feet have gone to sleep, it seems," he gasped. "I'm sorry, Sam. You'll have to help me to the bathing room, if you don't mind. It would be a pity to waste all your hard work - if I waited so to walk alone, you see."
Sam saw, all right. He saw that Frodo needed his help, and didn't want it either. He recalled the old saying about protesting too much - but that was neither here nor there. His master needed him, needed his sturdy body, and it was his to use, from the topmost hair on his head down to his furry toes. He draped his master's arm about his neck and placed a tentative hand on the slim waist, sneaking a look at Frodo's face as he did so, but Frodo didn't look up. His eyes were on the floor, the fan of thick lashes sooty against the fine skin of his cheek, as if placing his feet just so were of the utmost importance. Sam squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and went giddy as Frodo's scent flooded his nostrils. Blast and confound it - this wouldn't do at all. Stop that, he told his wayward body sternly, and then averted his eyes and tried not to breathe.
Frodo didn't say another word as they negotiated a path to the door, though he winced at the needles of pain that shot through his feet. They left the door open to light the hallway, and as he guided his master to his bath, Sam couldn't help remembering what had brought them to this pass.
***
It had been almost a month since that wondrous revelation in the kitchen of Bag End, when all his dreams had come true and Frodo had laid a garden of delight before his unworthy feet. They hadn't done much that night, although every bit of what they had managed was glorious. They were still feeling their way through the maze of desire, secure in the knowledge that all the time in the world stretched out before them.
Which time, as it turned out - wasn't much, after all.
For the next morning, a whirlwind of mischief lit on the doorstep of the venerable smial. Sam was quite fond of Master Merry and Master Pip - but that early summer's day, he could have quite cheerfully wrung their giddy necks. Frodo, for his part, welcomed his unexpected guests warmly, and hid his chagrin well - but his rueful glance at Sam would have filled a good-sized book. Sam would have dearly loved to read that particular story, so he would.
They scarcely had a moment to themselves for near to three weeks. Merry and Pippin seemed to think it their bounden duty to fill every hour of Frodo's day with amusement, and bless their kind hearts, they did it out of love. It hadn't been two years since Bilbo disappeared after all, and they knew their beloved cousin felt the old hobbit's absence keenly. They seemed to expect Frodo to fall into a slough of despond at any minute, and were determined to head it off if they could.
All he and Frodo had were stolen moments; in the dank buttery, in shadowed hallways and hidden garden nooks. Hurried kisses and caresses - all too brief before a cry of Frodo! Where are you? split the peaceful air and drove them apart again. And with the presence of the two scions of the gentry, Sam felt his place the more keenly. He could never bring himself to initiate those heated gropings, those tender encounters - Frodo did, and he surrendered himself gladly. He doggedly refused the offers of a bed for the night too, and trudged home to his Gaffer's hole each evening, to lie awake or dream, hot, desperate dreams, full of longing and needing, and the numb relief of release.
Not for the first time, he mourned the dearth of locks at Bag End. They'd never needed any before, seemingly. Master Pip, in particular, seemed to take a closed door as a personal affront and saw no need to knock for courtesy. It was unnerving, to say the least - and a death knell to desire. And Master Merry was just as bad. Sam hadn't missed the raised brows when he had encountered them on the doorstep that first morning - and he disheveled from a night spent in Frodo's bed. Buckland's heir was a sharp one, he was, and there was no subtlety in his appraising glances and sharp looks. Sam knew disapproval when he saw it.
All was well, though, until the third week - and something changed. The three gentlehobbits had been gone for the day, away to one of the steadings in Frodo's charge. It was dark when they returned, and as Sam served a late supper, he felt his master's eyes on him. He looked back, and Frodo looked away, his face unreadable, and Sam felt the first stirrings of unease. The rest of the week bore out his fears. Frodo wasn't cold to him - not at all, but neither did he pull Sam into closets or empty rooms for stolen kisses. There was something in him now that had shut the door, inviting neither questions nor confidings, and it would take a braver hobbit than Sam to try. It had all been so new, so gloriously out of the normal run of his life, that it still had the haziness of a happy dream. He couldn't ask, and ruin the dream past repair.
Was this all there was going to be, then? There was no answer. Deep inside him, he felt the fragile petals of a budding hope curl up and start to die.
***
They halted at the bath room door. Frodo stamped his feet and sighed with relief. "Much better," he said, and slid his arm from around Sam's neck. "Thank you, Sam," he smiled, and moved away. Sam felt his hand tighten of itself on the sweet curve of his master's waist - then he collected himself and snatched it away, his cheeks hot with embarrassment.
The flicker of firelight bathed the room, washing the polished flagstones with a liquid gleam. The air was chill, but for the circle of warmth shed by the roaring blaze. Bathing sheets and soap sat on a stool by the steaming tub, and everything was in readiness. Sam looked about uncertainly, then stepped toward the fireplace to bank the fire.
"Sam!"
The dismay in his master's voice brought him up short, and he spun around.
His master stared in consternation at the hip-bath that stood by the hearth. "Sam, where's the new tub we sent out for? I can't use this! It will leave me more knotted up than I already am!"
Sam nodded toward a canvas-covered bulk that stood in a shadowed corner and frowned. "You can't use that yet, Mr. Frodo! I haven't looked it over proper and I dunno as how it will do, I surely don't."
"Why shouldn't it do? We've never had a problem before, have we?"
"This ain't of Tom Cooper's making, sir. He's laid up with his joints all swollen, and his lads have been hard-put to keep up with the work." Sam wrung his hands nervously. "I had it from a new cooper over in Bywater, and I don't rightly know his work, Mr. Frodo. I'd feel a sight better if you'd let me give it a proper goings-over, begging your pardon, sir."
"I'm not going to eat it, Sam!" Frodo strode to the corner and dragged the tub out from under its covering. "The worst it will do is leak, I'm sure. I am going to use it, and if you'll lend a hand, we'll get it set up in a minute, all right?"
Sam shrugged in resignation, sparing a dark thought for a certain Took's prankish antics. If Mr. Pip hadn't stoved out the old bath with his big feet, they wouldn't be in this pickle now. Sam knew the obstinate set of his master's jaw as well as he knew the back of his own hand. There wouldn't be any more arguing with Frodo in this mood, for certain.
He managed a quick feel around the inside of the tub and sloshed a good pail-full of boiling water around in it to wash loose shavings away. It did look like good stavework, he supposed. The pale new wood shone in the firelight, and the ironmongery looked sturdy. Not that it mattered now, anyway.
The bath was filled in short order, and Sam sneezed as the smell of wax rose with the steam. He went over to the hutch set in the wall, and took down a slender flagon of oil. The scent of roses filled the room as he dribbled a stream of it into the bath water. "There," he said, satisfied. "It won't do to have you smelling like a candle now, would it?"
Frodo got that odd, pinched look again and turned away, his hands going to his braces. "Thank you for your help, Sam," he said. "I will call if I need you again."
That was a dismissal if he ever heard one, and he went quickly to the door. "All right, Mr. Frodo," he managed before edging out into the hallway. "You do that."
Behind him, a slim figure stood, fingers tight upon the tub's rim, a certain rigidity to the bent back. Frodo's lower lip bled white where his teeth were clenched hard on it, and he stared into the steaming water for a long moment before shedding his clothing and climbing in. The heat worked its way into his aching body, and he surrendered himself to it gratefully, sliding deeper into the scented water as his eyelids fluttered shut.