Strawberries Aplenty - A Taste of Strawberries Remix
Title: Strawberries Aplenty - A Taste of Strawberries Remix
Author: the_arc5
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Gen
Rating: G
Summary: It's a morning for epiphanies, and there are strawberries to go with them.
Author's Note: Written for my creative challenge meme over on my personal journal, a remix of dreamflower02's The Taste of Strawberries
It was second breakfast before Rosie could hear Mr. Frodo stirring, though Nick was jawing loud enough. Were she in a different frame of mind, she might have shushed him, but the sun was bright and cheerful outside, her secret was bright and cheerful inside, and she felt magnanimous toward the world in general. Mr. Frodo came into the kitchen just as Nick was finishing his third slice of toast, dressed, albeit not to his usual standards. Rosie remembered the Master of Bag End always in weskit and jacket. But that was silly; she’d seen Mr. Frodo in shirtsleeves and braces, fishing with his cousins or pottering about the garden with Sam. Still, she couldn’t help but look at him now like he was a faunt trying to dress himself, his hair at odds with his head and his eyes wide and soft from sleep.
“Good morning, Mr. Frodo,” she said, sounding like her mother in her own ears. “I had wondered were you coming to breakfast at all today.”
Mr. Frodo wished her a good morning and greeted Nick, his smile slowly curling over his face like a morning glory coming to bloom. His eyes flickered over second breakfast and landed on the toast rack.
“I think just a piece of toast and a cup of tea this morning, thank you.”
It’d been a piece of toast and a cup of tea for six mornings running, and Rosie was scowling before she’d given her face permission, and her mother’s voice was telling Mr. Frodo it’d be sausage and soft-boiled egg too, thank you very much. One part of her was horrified, as she had promised herself all through her tweens that she would never, never use that tone. But the other part hugged her secret into her, figuring that her mother’s brood had turned out well enough, and maybe the voice wasn’t so bad after all. It got Mr. Frodo to take an egg, anyway, which was more than Sam had managed to coax him into for the past several days. Mr. Frodo and Nick teased her for being bossy, but they didn’t know what she knew, that it was all just practice, and she practiced out a neat thump on Nick’s head before he could duck. She’d got that reflex from her mother, too, and it was a good one.
Mr. Frodo laughed at Nick’s misfortune, and she took the opportunity to push over the berry-basket Nick had brought.
“Look what my Ma has sent to us, Mr. Frodo!”
Mr. Frodo’s eyes widened. “Those are lovely, Rose!”
She chose two of the best and put them on his plate before he had time to refuse. His fingertips ran over the berry, and he remembered to ask about Sam. Mending his old knife, she told him, the one Mr. Merry had given him. Larks, hadn’t Sam puffed up like a frog the day Merry had gifted it to him! It was so worn, she was scarcely surprised it’d decided to start crumbling, but if any lad alive could fix it, it was her Sam. Mr. Frodo nodded, as if nothing in the Shire was more important than getting that old knife fixed.
“Well, Rosie, I’m going out to have a chin-wag with Sam before I head to home. Goodbye, Mr. Frodo.”
Nick pecked her cheek on his way to the door, remembering to slide his dish into the dishpan. He’d have a smoke with Sam, she’d bet her buttons, and she smiled as she watched him amble toward the shed. She turned back to the table just as Mr. Frodo lifted one of the strawberries to his lips, eating it slowly, delicately, like it was a treasure made just for his tongue. Part of her wanted to watch him forever, his eyes fluttered shut and tongue flicking out to taste the juice on his fingertips; he was beautiful, and no mistake, the kind of beautiful that belonged in a song or a legend. The other part of her saw him eat and nearly wept. He ate like he might never taste strawberries again, and she wanted to heap his plate high, wrap him in blankets and hold him safe and warm, promise him he’d never be in want, or afraid, or alone ever again. He caught her watching and smiled that morning-glory smile.
“Rose, dear, do not ever take for granted the taste of strawberries,” he said in a whisper, and her fingers tightened on the edge of the table. To take these small pleasures for granted was a pleasure in itself, to look out on the fields and see plenty, to eat knowing there was more. They’d all seen dark days, looked at their cupboards and wondered. And, Rose supposed, that meant they would all remember, and the joys of abundance would be only with their children.
“No, Mr. Frodo, I won’t,” she answered, and added to herself, but my little one will, if I’ve aught to say about it.
Now Mr. Frodo leaned back, folding his hands in a way she’d seen Mr. Merry do when he was scheming.
“I thought,” he said, “that I might take my supper at The Ivy Bush tonight. It seemed to me that you might want to have a private supper with Sam tonight. I think you may have something you want to tell him.”
Rosie gasped despite herself as he glanced meaningfully toward her apron.
“Mr. Frodo! How did you know? I was only sure of it myself yesterday!”
“I think I have been too much among the Elves, Rose. It’s the kind of thing they always seem to know, and somehow I seem to have picked up the knack.”
Stuff and nonsense, but Rosie wouldn’t say a word. He looked half Elvish himself, and she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that old tale of faery blood in the Tooks had suddenly turned true, all in him, all at once. He looked too introspective as he said it, too knowing.
“What do you think about it, then?” she asked, feeling her heart pound a little at the question. Sharing a smial with her and Sam was one thing; Sam had practically lived there before, and she reckoned her cooking was even trade for another body indoors. But faunts were something else, and even if he had grown up at Brandy Hall, he must be used to the quiet and space of Bag End by now. He bit into another strawberry before answering, and when he did, he sounded almost...shy.
“I think that it is delightful, Rose, and I could not be more pleased. Would you mind awfully if I were ‘Uncle Frodo’?”
Uncle Frodo. Larks. As if he had to ask permission to be part of their family. The question, and the hesitant way he asked overwhelmed every instinct Rosie had.
“Of course I wouldn’t mind!” She ducked in and pressed a kiss to his curls. For all he was older, wiser, far-traveled, subject of story and song, Master of Bag End, and maybe a bit magical besides, she knew with an iron conviction that she would care for him as surely as she would care for the babe inside her. He’d asked for a family, and she would give him one, starting with herself. And two strawberries, an egg, and a half-eaten piece of toast wouldn’t do for any lad of hers.
“I will leave a piece of strawberry pie out for you, when you get home tonight!”
He smiled up at her, morning glories, and she gently smoothed his hair before gathering up the breakfast things.
“Thank you, Rose. I shall be looking forward to it,” he said, and though the words were ordinary, she thought, for an instant, that he had felt her promise, and understood.
***
Rosie woke as the back door clicked shut, and Sam snuffled beside her.
“‘S only Mr. Frodo,” he murmured sleepily. “Go back to sleep.”
If she strained her ears in the dark, though, she could hear the clink of silver against china, and she smiled to herself, imagining him hearty and happy, the taste of love as sweet as strawberries in his mouth.
Author: the_arc5
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Gen
Rating: G
Summary: It's a morning for epiphanies, and there are strawberries to go with them.
Author's Note: Written for my creative challenge meme over on my personal journal, a remix of dreamflower02's The Taste of Strawberries
It was second breakfast before Rosie could hear Mr. Frodo stirring, though Nick was jawing loud enough. Were she in a different frame of mind, she might have shushed him, but the sun was bright and cheerful outside, her secret was bright and cheerful inside, and she felt magnanimous toward the world in general. Mr. Frodo came into the kitchen just as Nick was finishing his third slice of toast, dressed, albeit not to his usual standards. Rosie remembered the Master of Bag End always in weskit and jacket. But that was silly; she’d seen Mr. Frodo in shirtsleeves and braces, fishing with his cousins or pottering about the garden with Sam. Still, she couldn’t help but look at him now like he was a faunt trying to dress himself, his hair at odds with his head and his eyes wide and soft from sleep.
“Good morning, Mr. Frodo,” she said, sounding like her mother in her own ears. “I had wondered were you coming to breakfast at all today.”
Mr. Frodo wished her a good morning and greeted Nick, his smile slowly curling over his face like a morning glory coming to bloom. His eyes flickered over second breakfast and landed on the toast rack.
“I think just a piece of toast and a cup of tea this morning, thank you.”
It’d been a piece of toast and a cup of tea for six mornings running, and Rosie was scowling before she’d given her face permission, and her mother’s voice was telling Mr. Frodo it’d be sausage and soft-boiled egg too, thank you very much. One part of her was horrified, as she had promised herself all through her tweens that she would never, never use that tone. But the other part hugged her secret into her, figuring that her mother’s brood had turned out well enough, and maybe the voice wasn’t so bad after all. It got Mr. Frodo to take an egg, anyway, which was more than Sam had managed to coax him into for the past several days. Mr. Frodo and Nick teased her for being bossy, but they didn’t know what she knew, that it was all just practice, and she practiced out a neat thump on Nick’s head before he could duck. She’d got that reflex from her mother, too, and it was a good one.
Mr. Frodo laughed at Nick’s misfortune, and she took the opportunity to push over the berry-basket Nick had brought.
“Look what my Ma has sent to us, Mr. Frodo!”
Mr. Frodo’s eyes widened. “Those are lovely, Rose!”
She chose two of the best and put them on his plate before he had time to refuse. His fingertips ran over the berry, and he remembered to ask about Sam. Mending his old knife, she told him, the one Mr. Merry had given him. Larks, hadn’t Sam puffed up like a frog the day Merry had gifted it to him! It was so worn, she was scarcely surprised it’d decided to start crumbling, but if any lad alive could fix it, it was her Sam. Mr. Frodo nodded, as if nothing in the Shire was more important than getting that old knife fixed.
“Well, Rosie, I’m going out to have a chin-wag with Sam before I head to home. Goodbye, Mr. Frodo.”
Nick pecked her cheek on his way to the door, remembering to slide his dish into the dishpan. He’d have a smoke with Sam, she’d bet her buttons, and she smiled as she watched him amble toward the shed. She turned back to the table just as Mr. Frodo lifted one of the strawberries to his lips, eating it slowly, delicately, like it was a treasure made just for his tongue. Part of her wanted to watch him forever, his eyes fluttered shut and tongue flicking out to taste the juice on his fingertips; he was beautiful, and no mistake, the kind of beautiful that belonged in a song or a legend. The other part of her saw him eat and nearly wept. He ate like he might never taste strawberries again, and she wanted to heap his plate high, wrap him in blankets and hold him safe and warm, promise him he’d never be in want, or afraid, or alone ever again. He caught her watching and smiled that morning-glory smile.
“Rose, dear, do not ever take for granted the taste of strawberries,” he said in a whisper, and her fingers tightened on the edge of the table. To take these small pleasures for granted was a pleasure in itself, to look out on the fields and see plenty, to eat knowing there was more. They’d all seen dark days, looked at their cupboards and wondered. And, Rose supposed, that meant they would all remember, and the joys of abundance would be only with their children.
“No, Mr. Frodo, I won’t,” she answered, and added to herself, but my little one will, if I’ve aught to say about it.
Now Mr. Frodo leaned back, folding his hands in a way she’d seen Mr. Merry do when he was scheming.
“I thought,” he said, “that I might take my supper at The Ivy Bush tonight. It seemed to me that you might want to have a private supper with Sam tonight. I think you may have something you want to tell him.”
Rosie gasped despite herself as he glanced meaningfully toward her apron.
“Mr. Frodo! How did you know? I was only sure of it myself yesterday!”
“I think I have been too much among the Elves, Rose. It’s the kind of thing they always seem to know, and somehow I seem to have picked up the knack.”
Stuff and nonsense, but Rosie wouldn’t say a word. He looked half Elvish himself, and she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that old tale of faery blood in the Tooks had suddenly turned true, all in him, all at once. He looked too introspective as he said it, too knowing.
“What do you think about it, then?” she asked, feeling her heart pound a little at the question. Sharing a smial with her and Sam was one thing; Sam had practically lived there before, and she reckoned her cooking was even trade for another body indoors. But faunts were something else, and even if he had grown up at Brandy Hall, he must be used to the quiet and space of Bag End by now. He bit into another strawberry before answering, and when he did, he sounded almost...shy.
“I think that it is delightful, Rose, and I could not be more pleased. Would you mind awfully if I were ‘Uncle Frodo’?”
Uncle Frodo. Larks. As if he had to ask permission to be part of their family. The question, and the hesitant way he asked overwhelmed every instinct Rosie had.
“Of course I wouldn’t mind!” She ducked in and pressed a kiss to his curls. For all he was older, wiser, far-traveled, subject of story and song, Master of Bag End, and maybe a bit magical besides, she knew with an iron conviction that she would care for him as surely as she would care for the babe inside her. He’d asked for a family, and she would give him one, starting with herself. And two strawberries, an egg, and a half-eaten piece of toast wouldn’t do for any lad of hers.
“I will leave a piece of strawberry pie out for you, when you get home tonight!”
He smiled up at her, morning glories, and she gently smoothed his hair before gathering up the breakfast things.
“Thank you, Rose. I shall be looking forward to it,” he said, and though the words were ordinary, she thought, for an instant, that he had felt her promise, and understood.
***
Rosie woke as the back door clicked shut, and Sam snuffled beside her.
“‘S only Mr. Frodo,” he murmured sleepily. “Go back to sleep.”
If she strained her ears in the dark, though, she could hear the clink of silver against china, and she smiled to herself, imagining him hearty and happy, the taste of love as sweet as strawberries in his mouth.