Back at Bag End - How it Should Have Gone

I finally caved into my primal nerdy instincts and wrote my first fanfiction (there is no turning back from here). I apologize in advance for how much I suck at third person. But I suck at third person.

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It had been a particularly blustery day in the Shire, and it seemed to Sam that his garden at Bag End just wouldn't stay rooted. Try as he might, the sweet pea wall would blow over, or the corn, which wasn't anywhere near ripe, would fall right off the stalks when an unusually strong bout of wind hit.

He was a very frustrated Hobbit, dirty-cheeked and cinch-lipped from all his failed efforts, but he just couldn't right make himself go inside. Mr. Frodo would be in there, he knew, pouring over some book or reclining in his chair with a pipe between his teeth. Which wouldn't have been a problem, had Sam not been subject to the butterflies something awful whenever he looked in his master's direction. Which also wouldn't have been a problem (Sam was growing used to the warm feelings, after so long bearing them around as he did), save that they seemed to be mounting lately.

Maybe it was just that this whole Shire business was finally all taken care of; everything was back in order, or at least as back in order as they could get it, and they were comfy as they ever had been, tucked away right safe in their homes. He didn't have to worry so much about Frodo sticking on no Ring, or getting chased by any Black Riders or shrivelled up once-was-a-hobbit.

He was safe, and Mr. Frodo was safe, and things had got back to normal. So now Sam was getting back to normal, hiding away in his garden where he didn't have to think about no butterflies in his belly.

Or, he wouldn't have to think about no butterflies in his belly if the butterflies weren't as bad as they were. He accounted it to how much time he'd been spending with Mr. Frodo, and how friendly it was getting. Just last night, they'd had a sip or two too much of ale, and they'd danced and sang their way round the kitchen hand in hand.

Sam'd nearly just kissed him right then. He would've, if he'd been braver than he was.

"Old Samwise," he scolded himself, staring at the sweet-pea wall, which had once again toppled over in the wind, "You could make it through Mordor with him sick in the head as he was, and you saved him from that old tower, and walked right into Mount Doom, but you're too big a ninny to tell him how you feel." He crossed his arms and pushed his lips together. "You know what your Gaffer would say. He'd tell you to stop being such a ninnyhammer and just fess up to the master. So that's just what you've got to do."

Of course, this was the third time he'd had this conversation with himself that day, and no matter how many times he repeated the scolding, he just didn't have the stomach for it. It was easy enough to do in that thicket, with Mr. Frodo's ears stopped up by sleep. He'd tried after that, mind you. In Rivendell and in Mordor, and back with Faramir, and after they'd got back to the Shire. It always got stuck right in the back of his throat, just far enough that he couldn't reach it well enough to make it come out.

He was still frowning at the peas and thinking on it when the window beside him popped open and Mr. Frodo himself stuck his head out. Sam couldn't look at him with more than the corner of his eye, or his cheeks would get all pink.

"You've been out here for hours, Sam. Why don't you come in and have some supper with me, at least? You can get to gardening again as soon as you're done." The smile that screwed up his lips fell a little bit when he peeped out further, leaning out till Sam was scared he'd topple over the window sill and crack his head. "You don't seem to be having much luck, anyway. I was wondering why you looked so glum."

Sam's arms dropped back to his side, and he pulled his kerchief out of his chest pocket to wipe at his brow. "I'll be in in just a minute, Mr. Frodo. Right after I nail up this sweet pea wall better."

Frodo sank back down, smile now a frown of concern more than anything else. "I don't think you'll have much luck with it until tomorrow, Sam. Come in now, before you catch a cold. That wind's not good for your chest."

Sam sighed, but trudged to the front door and wiped his feet on the mat anyway. He didn't realize just how windy it was until he got inside, and he could hear more than whistling by his ears. No wonder Mr. Frodo had opened a window so close to him.

He sniffed out mushroom soup and fresh bread and cheese, but even that didn't do to distract him any. He pulled off his cap and hung it up, twisting to crack his stiff back before heading on to wash up. Frodo was still wandering about the kitchen, humming one of Bilbo's old songs to himself as he got down the plates. Sam found himself getting warm all over again, with his heart beat-beat-beating too fast, and his stomach flipping all over the place.

Sam turned away from the sink, startling on account of how close Frodo was standing. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he reached up a hand to touch Sam's cheek just as Sam leaned back to brace himself on the counter. Sam's heart just about thumped its way up his throat and right out his mouth.

"Your cheeks, Sam. They've got windburn something awful." Frodo's frown got deeper. "Except that it feels more like fever than windburn. Are you feeling alright?"

"Well, see Mr. Frodo, I-" It was a moment of bravery. One hand peeled away from the counter edge, and he meant to move it right to the hand Frodo had on his cheek. Only, Frodo's hand fell before he got a chance.

"Yes?"

Sam hadn't been aware that he'd paused until then. He blinked a few times, positively flustered, and gave his throat a firm clearing. "I was just- just going to tell you..." He faltered and then sighed, shoulders drooping under a weight he couldn't see, but was more than conscious of. "Never mind, Mr. Frodo. It's nothing important. Just a wee bit tired I suppose."

Frodo didn't look at all convinced-- which was no surprise, since Sam had a hard time fooling much of anyone-- but he let up.

Sam found himself unable to eat much over supper, which only served to concern his master more, and he didn't say much, which was the only thing that Mr. Frodo didn't say anything about. He felt like a ninnyhammer, he did, and he could hear his Gaffer calling him one in his head-- telling him that he was still acting like a lovesick tween; not even man enough for all the space in his trousers.

It was thinking about that that got Sam's mind set. He was a man, and there wasn't no space left in his trousers; he couldn't let his Gaffer push him around like that when he wasn't even there to do it. He'd just wait till they got the dishes done so he could think up what he was going to say, and then he'd say it. It was that simple. He should have got to it months ago.

That time came, and Sam just about did it before he lost his courage. He decided to wait until Mr. Frodo was curled up by the fire with his pipe, because he was always in his best mood then, and he wasn't nearly so threatening when he was sitting. Not that the master was ever threatening, but it was less intimidating talking to someone who was well below your own head, if you catch his meaning.

Which is exactly what Samwise Gamgee did. He slipped into his room to change into clean clothes while Mr. Frodo got himself all comfy, and when he came back out, he stood between Mr. Frodo, nestled down in his nice red easy-chair, and the fire, tapping the rug with his toes. He had his hat clutched in his hands near his belly, though he wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten it since he'd left it on the rack, but it helped his nerves to have something to hold onto.

Frodo looked up, blowing out a puff of smoke. His lips were curled up in that little smile he always used around Sam. In other words, the one that made Sam's knees feel a mite weaker and his throat all stuffed up with words he wanted to say and couldn't.

"Is something the matter, Sam?" he asked. "Do you need to sit down?"

Sam took in a big gulp of air and shook his head. "No, that's quite fine, Mr. Frodo. I think I'll do better at this standing up, if you catch my meaning."

Frodo lowered his pipe, still with that smile. "I don't think that I do, Sam. What is it?"

A great big rock felt like it had settled in the pit of Sam's stomach. One of the ones Frodo'd helped him move to the flowerbeds to add some depth, or whatever he'd called it, and it felt like ants were crawling all over it. Ants weren't nearly as easy to deal with as butterflies were. He pushed his shoulders back all the same and tipped his chin up just so.

"Now, Mr. Frodo, I've got something important to say to you, and I'm just going to out and say it, if you follow me right, and it's taking me an awful lot of bravery so I need you to just keep right on sitting so I can--"

Frodo laughed, but not meanly, and gave his head a small shake. "Come now, Sam. If it's all that important, just tell me."

Sam nearly choked on his tongue. "Well, you see, Mr. Frodo, I... I wanted to tell you back when we were still on our journey, see, but I just never could get the words out. I meant to. Back in Rivendell, and a few times in-- that place, which I won't say the name of in case it rankles your nerves, but I-" He took a deep breath, pretending he was throwing back a draught to loosen his tongue. "Mr. Frodo, I'm right stuck in love with you." Sam could feel the heat coming back to his cheeks, and it only got worse the longer Frodo stared at him.

Sam started feeling like he was going to squirm right out of his skin, so he shuffled his feet and wrung at his hat, and when his voice finally found itself, it sounded downright desperate. "Oh Mr. Frodo, don't just look at me like that. Say something, Mr. Frodo. Tell me to leave at least, just so I don't have to stay in suspense like--"

"Leave?" Frodo cut him off, eyes rounding a little. "I wouldn't ask you to leave, Sam. I-" He broke off into a laugh, which only served to make Sam's face flush all the more. "I can't very well ask you to leave when I feel the same way you do, now can I?"

It was Sam's turn for his eyes to go round. He stared at Frodo now, and when his words finally started working again, all he got out was, "You mean that, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo smiled again, nodding his head. "Of course I mean it. Why else would I say it?"

A grin split Sam's face in two, and he dropped to his knees in front of the easy chair, taking up one of Frodo's hands in both of his to press a kiss to the knuckles. His heart felt like it was going to burst, and his skin felt more like it was glowing than blushing.

"I should have told you in Rivendell. That's when I knew for sure, you know. I was right stuck on you I was, but that's a scary thing, to love someone that much and not know if they love you back, if you understand me right."

Frodo laughed. "I understand you perfectly." He tipped forward and, before Sam could so much as smile at him again, pressed a kiss to his forehead. A kiss that made Sam snatch the pipe from Frodo's hands and set it in its tray, so as he could pull Frodo onto his lap and give him a real kiss. Right on the lips, without even thinking first. And, for a second, Frodo seemed to be too surprised to do much of anything. But his hands went up after a while, one resting on Sam's jaw, the other on the back of his neck, and all Sam could think about were those hands, and Frodo's lips, and how he'd never felt so right or content in his whole entire life.

See now Samwise, he thought to himself, this is how it's supposed to be. You and Frodo together like this.

He was so dizzy by the time Frodo pulled back that he barely noticed it happened. "Well," Frodo said, a tad on the breathy side himself, "that was something that I think should've happened a long time ago."

The only thing Sam could do was smile at him and remember to let go so they could both stand up.

"The Shire's not going to stop blabbing about this for months," he said, but the thought wasn't all that unsettling, if you asked him. They could blab all they wanted; it wasn't the first time something like it had happened, and to be frank, Sam was far too pleased with the outcome to be giving much thought to nosey neighbours.

Frodo took his hand. "Maybe we should keep it quiet for a little while, Sam. It feels more special that way. We can tell everyone when we're good and ready to."

Sam thought on this for a moment before he nodded. Frodo was always thinking clearer than he was, and it seemed like a better idea to him anyway. It was just like them to be keeping secrets like this. "Maybe you're right, Mr. Frodo. Except, I think we ought to let Merry and Pippin know right away, and I don't know about you, but I feel like throwing a party. Nobody's got to know what's it for, really, but we could still dance together, if we're feeling brave enough."

Another smile pushed up the corners of Frodo's lips, and he nodded. "I think that's a good idea. We'll worry about it tomorrow, then." He yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his free hand, and chuckled. "For now though, I think we ought to get ourselves to bed. We can go for a walk tomorrow and talk this out after we've had a good night's rest."

Sam agreed and walked Frodo to his room in silence. They both paused in front of the door, and Sam didn't know what Frodo was pausing for, but he himself felt like he ought to say something more. Only, he couldn't think of anything to tell him.

Frodo surprised him after a moment or two, sneaking a quick (and nervous, almost, if Sam was judging him right) kiss before settling a hand on his door handle. "Goodnight, Sam." He smiled, but something about it was near sheepish. "I'll see you in the morning."

Sam nodded, his own, much less abashed and much more lopsided, smile making itself good and known. "Goodnight, Mr. Frodo."

There was another moment spent in silence before Frodo squeezed his shoulder and disappeared into his room, leaving Sam alone with his smile and a contentedness that not even a blustery day and a dishevelled garden could dismantle.