Fic: Love and Lettuce, Actually - F/S R
(Just playing catch up and posting this here for the sake of completion - you may have seen it on the Hobbit Smut Hold Me, Heal Me Challenge, so pass right along, now)
Warnings: Naked lettuce, aggressive wheelbarrows, unbridled concern, and blatant Schmoop. Always wear protective clothing, and preferably goggles, when handling a product of this type
Rating: R
Summary: In which Sam tires of being The Fat Hobbit, and decides to do something about it (which sets it within the realms of movie canon, of course)
Notes:
1. I must make it absolutely plain that I do know that this story has a Very Silly Basic Premise. The idea came from a throwaway thought (in the intro to part II of Wishing), which just insinuated itself into my brain; when a couple of people mentioned that such a fic might be fun, said brain started playing with the notion, without any input from me. It was therefore not written for the challenge, but Sam's situational damage seemed to fit, so I manipulated it to a suitable conclusion. APFs (Aficionados of Pure Form) will doubtless identify the seams, but I hope that as PHFs, they may be able to ignore or at the least forgive them.
2. Canon point: if chocolate upsets you, think tobacco and potatoes; but if you are that worried about canon, you should not be reading this.
3. Hugs and thanks to Notabluemaia for beta, and so much more.
4. Er, First Time. Just for a change, you know…
Fluff, think fluff, when you read my stuff ™
Here for your delectation, edification and to make fun of:
Love and Lettuce
Actually!
‘More cake, Sam?’
‘No thank you, Mr Frodo.’
‘But you only had a very small piece, and you know you love chocolate cake!’ Frodo forbore to mention that he had made a chocolate cake deliberately, knowing how much Sam liked it.
‘I'm not really all that hungry, sir.’ Sam's tone was dampening, but the effect was not as convincing as he had intended, for his stomach chose that moment to complain rather loudly that it was very much less than half as full as it felt it ought to be right now.
‘Sam, you’ve hardly eaten a thing. Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’m fine, Mr Frodo, honest. I just don’t need any more to eat, thank you.’
Frodo regarded him thoughtfully, but said nothing. He poured more tea, and watched as Sam proceeded to drink his, black and sugarless. He didn’t point out that Sam’s tea normally rivalled his own for syrupiness, or that the milk had not, in fact, turned in the heat. He contemplated the meal they had just eaten - that he had eaten, and Sam had barely touched. It had consisted of a rather nice selection of tea time treats, though he did think so himself. And Sam had never quibbled at his cooking before, though both of them knew that Sam’s was better, when he wasn’t too busy in the garden to do it.
Frodo had griddled the crumpets and baked the scones competently enough, and he had been quite pleased with the way the chocolate cake had turned out. He had really been looking forward to Sam’s enjoyment of the light fluffy confection - split, and filled with softly whipped yellow cream and generous layers of Sam’s favourite cherry preserve. More cream piped lavishly over the top, whole cherries fished out of the jar, for decoration, and it certainly looked good enough to eat. He had been hoping for a more appreciative response than a muffled word of praise; and for the consumption of rather more than a single slice, so wafer thin that he could practically have read the Hobbiton Times through it. And before that - one crumpet, with a film of butter that Lobelia would have been proud to own to, and half a scone with none at all.
‘Well, I’d best get on, sir, if you’ve finished,’ Sam was saying, now, as he got up from his chair. ‘There’s still that pruning to do.’ He swung his capacious tool belt round to the front, as he spoke, and brought out his clippers as evidence of his eagerness to be away to his work. Which was rather odd, Frodo thought, as Sam had said, only the previous day, that the summer pruning of the orchard was complete, and he was on with shifting the compost for the new bed he was preparing.
Sam seemed to recollect himself, and reached to take the dishes to the sink. ‘Shall I wash up first, sir?’
‘No, leave it Sam, I’ll do it. There isn’t much. After all, you scarcely dirtied any plates, did you?’ That had come out rather more waspishly than Frodo intended, but no matter if it meant that Sam left now, so that Frodo could regain his composure.
Sam paused in the door way, mumbled, ‘Right sir, sorry, sir. Thank you, sir. And thank you for my tea. That cake were right good, it were, really. I just... weren’t...’ and he was gone.
Frodo sat at the table, twisting his empty teacup in his fingers, and considering the matter, with particular shame for the sudden outburst with which he had obviously upset Sam.
Sam was, quite definitely, off his food.
The week had begun normally enough, Frodo knew, for on Sterday, Sam had helped him to dispose of a generous second breakfast, before they set off for the market in Bywater. They had eaten a hearty lunch at the Green Dragon, and then Frodo had left Sam to finish his ale, having realised that he had unaccountably left one of his parcels on the counter at the post office. That had been the last time that Frodo could remember to have seen Sam eat properly; he had gone home for his tea, that day, and departed once more before supper.
There had been none of their usual easy, companionable meals since then. Today, for example, he had refused Frodo’s invitation to lunch, yet again, saying that he must go home because he had promised to see to something unspecified that was apparently in dire need of repair; so he could scarcely have had time to eat much, then. Before that, at elevenses, he claimed to have brought a snack with him, to eat as he worked, but Frodo had seen no sign of any such, when he had taken out a glass of lemon barley water for Sam to drink with whatever it was. He had accepted the invitation to tea, when Frodo had more or less driven him into a corner from which there had been no escape without being positively impolite; but he had eaten rather less than a startled rabbit in a lettuce patch.
He was not only off his food, he was absent-minded, too, even forgetting which job he was working at. And Frodo could think of only one reason why these things might be.
Drat - double drat! - Rosie Cotton with her bewitching curls and her come hither eyes, flaunting them at Sam as she had been at the market. Frodo had noticed her, of course he had, as he queued in the post office to buy three sticks of red sealing wax and a bottle of ink. He had watched through the window as she approached Sam, who was waiting outside with their purchases. He had seen her wink at Sam too, before she had flounced off with an enticing flip of her skirts, though he had tried very hard not to. He sighed. It was only natural, he supposed, that a healthy young hobbit should fall hard, when a pretty maid flirted at him so brazenly. But then, he supposed too, that it was only natural for a maid to flirt with a hobbit she so clearly found attractive.
And why would she not find Sam attractive? Muscular, protective, sun-kissed, as wonderfully rounded as any hobbit ought to be, intelligent, amusing, capable - Frodo’s mind ran quickly through his mental catalogue of Sam’s virtues. (For once, he left off desirable, unwilling to allow that and Rose Cotton to inhabit even the same thought as Sam.)
And then there were those chubby dimples, peeping out whenever Sam smiled… Sam’s smile was usually lurking, if not in evidence; he seemed so content that his joy in life simmered beneath his skin, bubbling to the surface at the least excuse.
Frodo almost dropped the cup, and put it down safely while he thought about this. He was feeling put out, simply because Rosie Cotton had smiled at the paragon that was Sam.
No, if he were honest, he was feeling exceptionally put out because Rosie Cotton had flirted outrageously with his Sam.
His Sam. Well, wasn’t he?
‘Your Sam’ll see to it, when you’re ready for them logs, Mr Frodo.’
‘I hear your Sam’s team won the cricket again, Highday, Mr Baggins. He makes a grand captain, for all he’s so young!’
‘Send your Sam along with a basket, sir, for we’ve a good crop and I knows you don’t have a plum tree up at Bag End.’
Not any longer; his Sam, it appeared, was suddenly Rosie’s Sam.
What could Rosie Cotton know of a hobbit like Sam? He wasn’t the ordinary, stay-at-home run-of-the-mill sort of hobbit she was used to. Rosie’s family and friends worked and laughed and played and slept. They weren’t interested in much beyond Shire life and Shire gossip and Shire folk. They didn’t go gallivanting to and fro about the Shire at the heels of their master, hoping the while to see elves. They weren’t addicted to tales and poetry and books. They didn’t have eyes of a colour that hovered between brown and green, dappled with summer gold, changeable as the pearl inside a precious shell from a faraway shore…
And he was behaving like a jealous tweenager, which was ridiculous, at his age.
He imagined Sam, those wonderful eyes crinkled up in a shy smile, taking Rosie’s hand before the mayor; he would probably kiss it, too, even though such things were considered rather fanciful and outside the general run of things in hobbit courtship. Sam had a romantic soul, Frodo knew, and loved to hear an elven romance with such grand gestures. He knew, too, that Sam would treat his Rosie like spun glass, guarding her, shielding her even from the weather, where he could, indulging her every whim; setting himself out to show his love in a hundred different ways, and with every little thing that he did for her, Sam would be saying, ‘I love you.’
Frodo sighed. Sam had always looked after him, presumably in practice for when he had his own life’s love to tend. And now it seemed that Sam had found her, and Frodo could be no more than the master Sam served. Well, what had he expected? He had known that Sam would find himself a lass, sooner or later; that he would settle onto the time-honoured path to wedlock laid out before all hobbits.
Most hobbits. Were he and Bilbo so peculiar in that respect? Frodo knew of Tosco Delverson, who had lived in Tuckborough for years, alone except for his manservant, whose name Frodo remembered well, for he was Sam, too, Sam Settsey. And in the smials of Buckland, there were quite several households in which the two together were happily of the same gender; in many cases, just friends or relatives, like himself and Bilbo, living together for company and convenience. But everyone knew that one or two were quietly far more to each other than that. The rumours were not malicious, exactly, but all hobbits being fond of a good gossip, things were bound to be said; said and then passed over. Such things were no-one else’s business really, after all, any more than the goings on in marital bedrooms the length and breadth of the Shire.
Well, there was definitely nothing going on in Frodo's bedroom. Not with anyone else, at any rate.
And now there never would be. He had always entertained a vague hope, that one day… But he should be glad for Sam, that he had found a lass so much to his liking.
He sighed again, and rose from his chair to do the washing up.
~~~
Frodo was quite right. Sam was not eating properly.
Drat Rosie Cotton and her sharp tongue! Sam would never have thought of it at all, if she hadn’t teased him like that. And it had struck the harder because, in the way of things, it seemed every other exchange he heard that day were out to point up the message.
‘How do, Sam! You’re looking pretty stout!’
‘How do, Rosie, keeping well, are you?’
‘Well enough, thank you, though not as stout as you!’ And she laughed. When Sam raised his eyebrows in question, she’d said with a smirk, ‘It’s the way you look, Sam, along of Mr Frodo.’
‘It’s my job, Rosie, to do the marketing with him, and carry stuff.’
‘Not that, Sam!’
‘What, then?’
‘When you're stood next to him!’ She giggled then, as Sam stood patiently awaiting an explanation.
‘The way you’d make two of him and some to spare. It looks right funny, you follering behind him - it should be t’other way about, ‘cause he’s the shadow an’ you’re the bulk!’
Sam had bristled, immediately. It weren’t his fault that Mr Frodo never seemed to round out like most hobbits - goodness knew, Sam tried hard enough to make sure his master were well fed and well looked after. Though, truth to tell, Sam preferred the way Mr Frodo looked, slender and almost elvish, like no-one else Sam had ever seen, save in drawings in the books at Bag End. His master were different, and special, and Sam wanted it that way (wanted him that way, his mind whispered, before he clamped down hard on the thought).
‘None of your business, Rose Cotton, so you just keep your tongue to yourself! Mr Frodo ain’t none of your concern, and ‘tain’t polite to comment on your betters like that.’
‘Very sorry, I’m sure, Samwise Gamgee!’ Rosie had retorted with a wink and a saucy grin, as she turned away to her own marketing.
And then later, in the Dragon, when Mr Frodo had gone off to retrieve a mislaid parcel, and Sam had sat a mite longer with his ale, there’d been a ribald conversation going on behind him.
‘That Gertie Harbottle, she’s a one!’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Aye. She’s got it into her head as she’s happen too stout for a wedding!’ It was common knowledge that Gertie was on the catch for a husband.
‘Well, she’s none so far off, there. A chap likes t’ave some notion of finding what he’s a-looking for!’
There had been a chorus of rather dirty laughs, and one or two remarks in lowered voices, that Sam hadn’t quite caught, but from the sniggering that greeted them, he knew that they had been rather crude, and he blushed vicariously into his mug. The next he heard clearly was a question.
‘An’ what’s she doing about it, then?’
‘Our Sarah says as she’s reckoning to live on bare lettuce for a week or three. Stands to reason, she says, as a thin food like lettuce’ll make her thinner, an’ all.’
Lettuce? thought Sam. She’s going to live on lettuce? Poor lass!
Not that Sam didn’t like a bit of lettuce now and again, lettuce and rocket and endive and such. He knew ‘em and grew ‘em, but he’d always had a great deal of sympathy with Gaffer, when Bell tried to get him to eat more fresh greenery. Gaffer had unfailingly retorted that if he were meant to live on lettuce, he’d’ve been born with long ears and a fluffy white tail. Sam didn’t dare his Mam’s sharp tongue himself, though. No, he’d been a good lad and dutifully eaten his rabbit-food, though he doubted that the rabbits would have liked quite so much dressing on theirs. Since Bell's death, such greenstuff made but a rare appearance on the dinner table at Number 3. Marigold knew herself unequal to fighting an already lost cause.
But it were true that Sam had never seen a really fat rabbit, so perhaps Gertie Harbottle had the right of it.
As his master completed his purchases, and Sam’s pack filled up with every little extra he could prevail upon Frodo to buy - taking seriously the fact that Rosie appeared to think Mr Frodo were fading away - every other vendor in the market place seemed to take it into his head to remark upon Sam’s fitness for the task, hinting at vast size, rather than strength, Sam could feel it.
And to cap it all, on the way back to Bag End, he had turned, and caught sight of their shadows behind them on the road. Though both were elongated by the late afternoon sun, there could be no doubt that one was a deal wider than the other. Even Mr Frodo's soft voice, recounting Mrs Fielding’s sly tease of him, for having left the post office without his purchases, couldn’t erase Rosie’s cuttingly apt remark, echoing in Sam’s ears even then - ‘He’s the shadow and you’re the bulk!’
And perhaps Mr Frodo did think that Sam was too fat.
Sam had glanced down at his belly. It weren’t much by hobbit standards. Set next to Will Dumpling, say, he’d have looked as much a shadow as Mr Frodo looked next to him. But, happen Mr Frodo got to hear the sly remarks, and were embarrassed by them? Happen he might think Sam would get too stout to fulfil his duties in the garden? Sam knew personally of one or two instances of hobbits who had had to take to a different trade, once their girth got the better of them. Stood to reason you couldn’t stay a Quick Post runner, when a fast toddle was all you could manage, nor a chimney sweep, once your belly was too big to fit down the flue.
Nor a gardener, if you got too fat to bend to the weeding...
He had made up his mind, instantly, that he must follow poor Gertie’s example, and live on unadorned greenery for a while, so as not to look too big to be seen in his master’s company, let alone to ward off the dread spectre of dismissal due to excessive dimensions.
There followed a miserable week of nigh-on starvation, chewing naked lettuce in secret in the tool shed, and constraining himself into almost total self denial when he was absolutely obliged to put in an appearance at one or other of the tables at which his presence was expected. It hadn’t done much to diminish his belly. All it seemed to have achieved was to set Marigold’s and Mr Frodo's backs up because he was only picking at the meals they put before him. That, and to make him quite light-headed from hunger.
And he didn't like all the fibbing, not one little bit.
But it was a fair exchange, he reminded himself, if his resolve faltered for the merest second. For every fine roast dinner, every sticky pudding and glass of ale declined, every crisp and insubstantial lettuce leaf consumed instead, might be worth another week - another day even - in Mr Frodo’s employ. It was only when he had forced himself to contemplate not working at Bag End, that Sam had admitted to himself at last just how much Frodo meant to him. A mere adolescent crush didn’t last from childhood to late tweens, didn’t make your future bleak and empty when you thought of losing the one person to whom you were closest… whom you loved with everything in you; didn't seem like to break your heart.
Aye, he’d do a sight more than eat lettuce to stay by Mr Frodo’s side.
But the magnificent chocolate/cherry/cream confection, made by Frodo’s own fair hands, had been a terrible test of Sam’s resolve. He really hoped that Mr Frodo had not taken too much offence at his refusal to accept more than a sliver of such a delicacy. His guilt was compounded by the fact that he more than half suspected his master to have baked with chocolate and used the cherries because he knew how partial Sam was to them. And he knew, himself, just how good it felt to have your best efforts properly appreciated, but he couldn’t actually explain why he had refused to eat more of the cake, not without feeling downright awkward, or even putting into Mr Frodo’s mind the awful possibility that a thinner gardener might well be more efficient.
What had made it far, far worse, though, was the fact that Frodo had managed to get cream all over his fingers as he had diminished Sam’s portion, at his request. It had taken a real effort for Sam to close his own mouth as his tongue leapt to the ready, and he’d had to avert his face, as Frodo licked and sucked away every trace of the offending substance. He had somehow managed to suppress his whimper completely, and he thanked the stars that he were sat where the table could hide the effect all that suction were having on him. He’d had to swing his tool belt around, though, when he got up, or his master would have noticed the problem for sure; ‘tweren’t exactly small enough to hide, right then, belly notwithstanding.
Delicious though the cake had been, and starved though he might feel, Sam’s mind had not, at that point, been entirely given over to thoughts of eating.
He sighed now, as he trundled the wheelbarrow back to the heap for another load of compost. He set it down and grasped the muck fork, but instead of using it to dig deep and fill the barrow, he leaned on it (even knowing what his Gaffer would have said, had he caught a glimpse of such slack-handed idleness) and allowed his thoughts to wander.
They seemed pretty keen on following the trend set up by that cake. And not even how hungry Sam was to eat of it, neither; but how much more wonderful the cream would have tasted, could he have been the one to clean those long, elegant fingers, and how he could think of other things far more worthy of decorating with fruit… Before he knew it, his imagination was spreading cream generously where cream was never meant to be spread, and was causing Mr Frodo to quiver and moan in the most gratifying manner, as Sam’s tongue chased wanton cherries hither and yon, and sought out cream from even the unlikeliest of places as he diligently relieved Frodo of one warm, smooth coating before coaxing from him another, warmer still…
He should stop this. ‘Tweren’t proper to think of Mr Frodo thus, and ‘tweren’t sensible to think about any kind of food, not with his stomach demanding to know if his throat had been cut. Desire and hunger were not a sensible combination, when the result was a giddiness that came between Sam and his work.
Dragging his mind reluctantly back to the present, he sighed and thrust his fork into the heap. ‘Well,’ he said aloud, ‘Gaffer allus has said as a proper-made compost should look good enough to eat, and so it does, but I never thought as I’d be that desperate!’
‘Sam? If you are that desperate, why didn’t you eat anything for tea?’
Startlement, light-headedness, and the shock of knowing that Mr Frodo had heard his plaint, combined to send Sam staggering sideways. He toppled over the barrow and ended up flat on his back, on the path at Frodo's feet.
‘Sam!’ Frodo was there, on his knees, in an instant. ‘Sam, are you all right? Say something, Sam!’
Sam’s giddiness was suddenly increased many fold by his master’s fingers: light upon his forehead, taking his hand to feel the pulse at his wrist, and then undoing a couple of buttons at the neck of his shirt, presumably to help him breathe the better.
If that were Mr Frodo's intention, he failed in it, quite comprehensively. What breath hadn’t been knocked out of Sam by the fall, vanished in a long gasp, as Frodo's hand trailed beneath his shirt, possibly to check his heart beat? Well, whatever that hand was supposed to be doing, the effect as it brushed his right nipple was far reaching, instantaneous, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the state of Sam's health.
The sharp thrill of renewed desire shocked Sam into an attempt at speech. ‘M- Mr F-’
‘Shhh, Sam, don't try to speak.’
This rather contradicted what Mr Frodo had previously said, but Sam didn't really need the admonition, being now struck completely dumb by his master's face, just inches above his own, and looking at him with such concern. The worry that Sam saw there, as Frodo traced a slow line along the edge of Sam's jaw, dissolved his insides to a melting medley of tenderness, longing, and just sheer love.
Sam closed his eyes, the better to appreciate what that gentle touch was doing to him. Not that he’d be able to stop here like this for long, of course. There’d be things needing his attention very shortly, preferably at the opposite end of the garden from Mr Frodo (or maybe within the private confines of the garden shed, if he found he couldn’t walk so far.)
‘Samwise! My dearest Sam, where does it hurt?’ Frodo was leaning close now, his breath puffing warm over Sam’s cheek. The necessity for a visit to the further reaches of the garden loomed ever nearer. An involuntary whimper escaped him, but if Mr Frodo chose to think that it was from pain, so much the better, if it meant that this soft stroking might continue.
In truth, his thighs had come into quite painful contact with the barrow handles, but if admitted to, he wouldn’t put it past Mr Frodo to want a closer look, the way he was taking on so. And Frodo’s hands on his bare legs, that high up, would rapidly obviate all need even for the shed’s concealment - ‘twould all be out in the open. As it were.
And that would take some explaining, and no mistake.
But Mr Frodo had pulled away now, and fallen quiet; Sam tried a small moan of encouragement (though, of course, it was really for the terrible ache in his… legs), then a rather larger one, which was mostly disappointment, for neither caring touch nor that solicitously stimulating voice resumed. Sam risked a peep through his lashes. Frodo was smiling broadly.
‘Samwise Gamgee - you are a fraud!’ And he giggled. Mr Frodo actually giggled.
‘I never, sir!’ Sam struggled onto one elbow, but Frodo pushed him down again, following closely, so his mouth was but a breath above Sam’s.
‘And moreover, I think that there are things you are keeping from me.’
He wasn’t sure what things Mr Frodo meant but they were his for the taking, so long as ever he would lean over Sam so close and, oh, just look at him like that. Though, of course, if he could consider stroking Sam’s face (or any other part of him) once more…
But Frodo went one better.
‘If you are going to protest, Sam, you had better do it right now. Because otherwise,’ Frodo paused for effect, tracing a finger across Sam’s lips, ‘otherwise, I am very much afraid I shall kiss you anyway.’
Protest? Did Mr Frodo think he were stupid? He might not quite see the reason for this most wonderful turn of events, but no-one had ever been able to accuse Sam Gamgee of failing to strike while the iron was hot. So to speak.
By the time that Frodo broke the kiss to allow Sam to breathe, the iron had passed well beyond hot, hurtled without pause through red hot, and progressed so far into the realms of white hot that he were imminent danger of total combustion. And he rather doubted that the mythical blue heat of which he’d once heard the blacksmith speak with reverence as almost unattainable, could possibly be any hotter than what he could see, burning him up in Mr Frodo’s gaze.
‘H-how did you know?’ he stuttered.
Frodo’s eyes kept Sam hovering very near to flash point, even as his fingers sauntered southwards.
‘This,’ he said, drawing a fingernail lightly over the front of Sam’s breeches. Sam nearly ignited, right then. ‘This is scarcely what one looks for in an injured hobbit, and since there’s no-one else here, I rather hoped it was for me?’
Now there was a hint of doubt in Frodo’s voice, and Sam couldn’t be having that.
‘Always for you,’ he said, breathlessly but with all the conviction and love he could muster.
Frodo was still a little hesitant. ‘Really for me, Sam? What about Rosie? I saw her flirting with you.’
‘Flirting? She was telling me- ’ Oh dear - well, it would have to come out now. ‘She was telling me how fat I look, stood next to you.’
‘Fat? So that’s why- Oh Sam, you are a wonderful figure of a hobbit! All that any hobbit could want and more.’
‘Any hobbit? Just any hobbit don’t matter to me, sir. I only want-’
‘This hobbit.’
‘Are you sure, s-?’ Sam’s question drowned in another kiss, this one long and loving, far out-matching any he could ever have dreamed - though in truth, his dreams of Mr Frodo had not often involved kissing, except as a brief prelude. It came as a surprise that Frodo’s mouth could be by turns, so hot and so demanding, and yet so softly alluring; his tongue designed to caress and beguile wherever it touched, yet flicker and twist against his own to wind desire ever higher - to tie Sam’s heart irrevocably to Frodo’s as smoothly as he would a knot in a cherry stalk.
‘Of course I’m sure, Sam!’ Frodo said at last. ‘Although - perhaps,’ the love in his eyes suddenly took on a wicked gleam, ‘perhaps I ought to check. I mean, see that the goods aren’t damaged, and so on…’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Sam agreed with alacrity, for his problem had merely stalled for the time being, as he shared the sweet delights of Frodo’s lips. It showed no signs of going away without assistance. In fact…
“Er - it’s my legs. Thighs, actually. I think- ’
Thinking was immediately abandoned, as Frodo slid a hand teasingly up each thigh, under the trousers. The rest of Sam went rigid, too.
‘Hmm,’ Frodo said. ‘I really can’t tell if there’s any bruising, without a closer look. I shall have to remove your breeches, Sam, I hope you don’t mind?’ With no demur (possible) from Sam, he suited action carefully to words, as he noted, ‘Isn’t it lucky that the compost heap is so well hidden? Absolutely no possibility of prying eyes to embarrass you!’
Sam’s response was completely incoherent, due to a long slow slide of Frodo’s fingers, without hindrance of fabric between. (It should be admitted, however, that by this time Sam would probably not have noticed if half the Shire had been peering over the fence, and Ted Sandyman selling tickets to the rest.)
‘Oh dear!’ Frodo’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, his tone one of great concern, underpinned with another of those giggles. ‘The swelling is... most noticeable, Sam. Perhaps I should kiss it better?'
That, and a slight chill of air as Frodo breathed in, were all the warning Sam had.
The long delayed release of desire pent up, the sudden heat of his mouth upon Sam, and the deliciously deft action of his fingers, rather lower, meant that Frodo had very little warning, either…
Not that either of them was complaining.
As Sam managed to open his eyes once more, Frodo was moving in for another kiss, licking his lips around the smuggest grin Sam had ever seen. This kiss was also a reminder - by turns suggestive, loving, imploring, loving, demanding, loving…
And when his lips were freed so that Frodo could breathe ‘Saaaam?’ hopefully, into his ear, Sam felt that pleading purr all the way down to his… toes.
But his sense of propriety was severely affronted, now that a small part of his brain was free to remember such matters. It were one thing for a gardener to be half naked next to his compost heap, quite another for the master to contemplate such a course. Besides which, these flagstones were hard, and quite chilly, beneath him, and he’d not like to think that Frodo…
He reached to stroke Frodo gently, his own desire stirring once more to match the firm swelling concealed under cloth. ‘Can we go inside for you?’ he asked shyly. ‘I want to do this proper, for you.’
‘I think I can wait that long, Sam! Though I hope we can be very improper when we get there. Please?’ He looked at Sam from beneath lowered lashes, and Sam could have sworn that a blue fire shot sparks at him - real or not, they had a definite kindling effect. A distinct incitement to conflagration, in fact. Sam’s struggle back into his breeches was suddenly more difficult as there was even more to get back into them. (The compost heap might be secluded, but it were a fair distance between here and the back door, and who knew but they might be overlooked along the way?)
He swallowed. ‘Funny you should say that, sir. When you surprised me, I were thinking about that cake- ’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sam, you must be starving!’ The thought that his Sam might fade away from lack of sustenance, strengthened Frodo’s resolve that he could wait, of course he could. Just not too long. ‘There‘s lots left - come and have a real tea, and then we can- ’
Sam stopped him with a kiss. ‘Well, not to say that I’m not hungry, but I was thinking more about that cake, and all the cream, and those cherries - and you... And happen that way, I could, um, satisfy both of us at once?’
‘What are we waiting for?’ Frodo’s face lit up with a smile that brought Sam’s eager stirring to the full. He winced a little as he began to walk (of course, there was the bruising on his thighs, as well.)
‘You are hurt, Sam!’
‘Nay, sir - you were better than arnica! Another application or two when we get indoors, and I’ll be right as rain - exhausted, I don't doubt, but I'm thinking that'll only be fair...'
Warnings: Naked lettuce, aggressive wheelbarrows, unbridled concern, and blatant Schmoop. Always wear protective clothing, and preferably goggles, when handling a product of this type
Rating: R
Summary: In which Sam tires of being The Fat Hobbit, and decides to do something about it (which sets it within the realms of movie canon, of course)
Notes:
1. I must make it absolutely plain that I do know that this story has a Very Silly Basic Premise. The idea came from a throwaway thought (in the intro to part II of Wishing), which just insinuated itself into my brain; when a couple of people mentioned that such a fic might be fun, said brain started playing with the notion, without any input from me. It was therefore not written for the challenge, but Sam's situational damage seemed to fit, so I manipulated it to a suitable conclusion. APFs (Aficionados of Pure Form) will doubtless identify the seams, but I hope that as PHFs, they may be able to ignore or at the least forgive them.
2. Canon point: if chocolate upsets you, think tobacco and potatoes; but if you are that worried about canon, you should not be reading this.
3. Hugs and thanks to Notabluemaia for beta, and so much more.
4. Er, First Time. Just for a change, you know…
Fluff, think fluff, when you read my stuff ™
Here for your delectation, edification and to make fun of:
Love and Lettuce
Actually!
‘More cake, Sam?’
‘No thank you, Mr Frodo.’
‘But you only had a very small piece, and you know you love chocolate cake!’ Frodo forbore to mention that he had made a chocolate cake deliberately, knowing how much Sam liked it.
‘I'm not really all that hungry, sir.’ Sam's tone was dampening, but the effect was not as convincing as he had intended, for his stomach chose that moment to complain rather loudly that it was very much less than half as full as it felt it ought to be right now.
‘Sam, you’ve hardly eaten a thing. Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’m fine, Mr Frodo, honest. I just don’t need any more to eat, thank you.’
Frodo regarded him thoughtfully, but said nothing. He poured more tea, and watched as Sam proceeded to drink his, black and sugarless. He didn’t point out that Sam’s tea normally rivalled his own for syrupiness, or that the milk had not, in fact, turned in the heat. He contemplated the meal they had just eaten - that he had eaten, and Sam had barely touched. It had consisted of a rather nice selection of tea time treats, though he did think so himself. And Sam had never quibbled at his cooking before, though both of them knew that Sam’s was better, when he wasn’t too busy in the garden to do it.
Frodo had griddled the crumpets and baked the scones competently enough, and he had been quite pleased with the way the chocolate cake had turned out. He had really been looking forward to Sam’s enjoyment of the light fluffy confection - split, and filled with softly whipped yellow cream and generous layers of Sam’s favourite cherry preserve. More cream piped lavishly over the top, whole cherries fished out of the jar, for decoration, and it certainly looked good enough to eat. He had been hoping for a more appreciative response than a muffled word of praise; and for the consumption of rather more than a single slice, so wafer thin that he could practically have read the Hobbiton Times through it. And before that - one crumpet, with a film of butter that Lobelia would have been proud to own to, and half a scone with none at all.
‘Well, I’d best get on, sir, if you’ve finished,’ Sam was saying, now, as he got up from his chair. ‘There’s still that pruning to do.’ He swung his capacious tool belt round to the front, as he spoke, and brought out his clippers as evidence of his eagerness to be away to his work. Which was rather odd, Frodo thought, as Sam had said, only the previous day, that the summer pruning of the orchard was complete, and he was on with shifting the compost for the new bed he was preparing.
Sam seemed to recollect himself, and reached to take the dishes to the sink. ‘Shall I wash up first, sir?’
‘No, leave it Sam, I’ll do it. There isn’t much. After all, you scarcely dirtied any plates, did you?’ That had come out rather more waspishly than Frodo intended, but no matter if it meant that Sam left now, so that Frodo could regain his composure.
Sam paused in the door way, mumbled, ‘Right sir, sorry, sir. Thank you, sir. And thank you for my tea. That cake were right good, it were, really. I just... weren’t...’ and he was gone.
Frodo sat at the table, twisting his empty teacup in his fingers, and considering the matter, with particular shame for the sudden outburst with which he had obviously upset Sam.
Sam was, quite definitely, off his food.
The week had begun normally enough, Frodo knew, for on Sterday, Sam had helped him to dispose of a generous second breakfast, before they set off for the market in Bywater. They had eaten a hearty lunch at the Green Dragon, and then Frodo had left Sam to finish his ale, having realised that he had unaccountably left one of his parcels on the counter at the post office. That had been the last time that Frodo could remember to have seen Sam eat properly; he had gone home for his tea, that day, and departed once more before supper.
There had been none of their usual easy, companionable meals since then. Today, for example, he had refused Frodo’s invitation to lunch, yet again, saying that he must go home because he had promised to see to something unspecified that was apparently in dire need of repair; so he could scarcely have had time to eat much, then. Before that, at elevenses, he claimed to have brought a snack with him, to eat as he worked, but Frodo had seen no sign of any such, when he had taken out a glass of lemon barley water for Sam to drink with whatever it was. He had accepted the invitation to tea, when Frodo had more or less driven him into a corner from which there had been no escape without being positively impolite; but he had eaten rather less than a startled rabbit in a lettuce patch.
He was not only off his food, he was absent-minded, too, even forgetting which job he was working at. And Frodo could think of only one reason why these things might be.
Drat - double drat! - Rosie Cotton with her bewitching curls and her come hither eyes, flaunting them at Sam as she had been at the market. Frodo had noticed her, of course he had, as he queued in the post office to buy three sticks of red sealing wax and a bottle of ink. He had watched through the window as she approached Sam, who was waiting outside with their purchases. He had seen her wink at Sam too, before she had flounced off with an enticing flip of her skirts, though he had tried very hard not to. He sighed. It was only natural, he supposed, that a healthy young hobbit should fall hard, when a pretty maid flirted at him so brazenly. But then, he supposed too, that it was only natural for a maid to flirt with a hobbit she so clearly found attractive.
And why would she not find Sam attractive? Muscular, protective, sun-kissed, as wonderfully rounded as any hobbit ought to be, intelligent, amusing, capable - Frodo’s mind ran quickly through his mental catalogue of Sam’s virtues. (For once, he left off desirable, unwilling to allow that and Rose Cotton to inhabit even the same thought as Sam.)
And then there were those chubby dimples, peeping out whenever Sam smiled… Sam’s smile was usually lurking, if not in evidence; he seemed so content that his joy in life simmered beneath his skin, bubbling to the surface at the least excuse.
Frodo almost dropped the cup, and put it down safely while he thought about this. He was feeling put out, simply because Rosie Cotton had smiled at the paragon that was Sam.
No, if he were honest, he was feeling exceptionally put out because Rosie Cotton had flirted outrageously with his Sam.
His Sam. Well, wasn’t he?
‘Your Sam’ll see to it, when you’re ready for them logs, Mr Frodo.’
‘I hear your Sam’s team won the cricket again, Highday, Mr Baggins. He makes a grand captain, for all he’s so young!’
‘Send your Sam along with a basket, sir, for we’ve a good crop and I knows you don’t have a plum tree up at Bag End.’
Not any longer; his Sam, it appeared, was suddenly Rosie’s Sam.
What could Rosie Cotton know of a hobbit like Sam? He wasn’t the ordinary, stay-at-home run-of-the-mill sort of hobbit she was used to. Rosie’s family and friends worked and laughed and played and slept. They weren’t interested in much beyond Shire life and Shire gossip and Shire folk. They didn’t go gallivanting to and fro about the Shire at the heels of their master, hoping the while to see elves. They weren’t addicted to tales and poetry and books. They didn’t have eyes of a colour that hovered between brown and green, dappled with summer gold, changeable as the pearl inside a precious shell from a faraway shore…
And he was behaving like a jealous tweenager, which was ridiculous, at his age.
He imagined Sam, those wonderful eyes crinkled up in a shy smile, taking Rosie’s hand before the mayor; he would probably kiss it, too, even though such things were considered rather fanciful and outside the general run of things in hobbit courtship. Sam had a romantic soul, Frodo knew, and loved to hear an elven romance with such grand gestures. He knew, too, that Sam would treat his Rosie like spun glass, guarding her, shielding her even from the weather, where he could, indulging her every whim; setting himself out to show his love in a hundred different ways, and with every little thing that he did for her, Sam would be saying, ‘I love you.’
Frodo sighed. Sam had always looked after him, presumably in practice for when he had his own life’s love to tend. And now it seemed that Sam had found her, and Frodo could be no more than the master Sam served. Well, what had he expected? He had known that Sam would find himself a lass, sooner or later; that he would settle onto the time-honoured path to wedlock laid out before all hobbits.
Most hobbits. Were he and Bilbo so peculiar in that respect? Frodo knew of Tosco Delverson, who had lived in Tuckborough for years, alone except for his manservant, whose name Frodo remembered well, for he was Sam, too, Sam Settsey. And in the smials of Buckland, there were quite several households in which the two together were happily of the same gender; in many cases, just friends or relatives, like himself and Bilbo, living together for company and convenience. But everyone knew that one or two were quietly far more to each other than that. The rumours were not malicious, exactly, but all hobbits being fond of a good gossip, things were bound to be said; said and then passed over. Such things were no-one else’s business really, after all, any more than the goings on in marital bedrooms the length and breadth of the Shire.
Well, there was definitely nothing going on in Frodo's bedroom. Not with anyone else, at any rate.
And now there never would be. He had always entertained a vague hope, that one day… But he should be glad for Sam, that he had found a lass so much to his liking.
He sighed again, and rose from his chair to do the washing up.
~~~
Frodo was quite right. Sam was not eating properly.
Drat Rosie Cotton and her sharp tongue! Sam would never have thought of it at all, if she hadn’t teased him like that. And it had struck the harder because, in the way of things, it seemed every other exchange he heard that day were out to point up the message.
‘How do, Sam! You’re looking pretty stout!’
‘How do, Rosie, keeping well, are you?’
‘Well enough, thank you, though not as stout as you!’ And she laughed. When Sam raised his eyebrows in question, she’d said with a smirk, ‘It’s the way you look, Sam, along of Mr Frodo.’
‘It’s my job, Rosie, to do the marketing with him, and carry stuff.’
‘Not that, Sam!’
‘What, then?’
‘When you're stood next to him!’ She giggled then, as Sam stood patiently awaiting an explanation.
‘The way you’d make two of him and some to spare. It looks right funny, you follering behind him - it should be t’other way about, ‘cause he’s the shadow an’ you’re the bulk!’
Sam had bristled, immediately. It weren’t his fault that Mr Frodo never seemed to round out like most hobbits - goodness knew, Sam tried hard enough to make sure his master were well fed and well looked after. Though, truth to tell, Sam preferred the way Mr Frodo looked, slender and almost elvish, like no-one else Sam had ever seen, save in drawings in the books at Bag End. His master were different, and special, and Sam wanted it that way (wanted him that way, his mind whispered, before he clamped down hard on the thought).
‘None of your business, Rose Cotton, so you just keep your tongue to yourself! Mr Frodo ain’t none of your concern, and ‘tain’t polite to comment on your betters like that.’
‘Very sorry, I’m sure, Samwise Gamgee!’ Rosie had retorted with a wink and a saucy grin, as she turned away to her own marketing.
And then later, in the Dragon, when Mr Frodo had gone off to retrieve a mislaid parcel, and Sam had sat a mite longer with his ale, there’d been a ribald conversation going on behind him.
‘That Gertie Harbottle, she’s a one!’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Aye. She’s got it into her head as she’s happen too stout for a wedding!’ It was common knowledge that Gertie was on the catch for a husband.
‘Well, she’s none so far off, there. A chap likes t’ave some notion of finding what he’s a-looking for!’
There had been a chorus of rather dirty laughs, and one or two remarks in lowered voices, that Sam hadn’t quite caught, but from the sniggering that greeted them, he knew that they had been rather crude, and he blushed vicariously into his mug. The next he heard clearly was a question.
‘An’ what’s she doing about it, then?’
‘Our Sarah says as she’s reckoning to live on bare lettuce for a week or three. Stands to reason, she says, as a thin food like lettuce’ll make her thinner, an’ all.’
Lettuce? thought Sam. She’s going to live on lettuce? Poor lass!
Not that Sam didn’t like a bit of lettuce now and again, lettuce and rocket and endive and such. He knew ‘em and grew ‘em, but he’d always had a great deal of sympathy with Gaffer, when Bell tried to get him to eat more fresh greenery. Gaffer had unfailingly retorted that if he were meant to live on lettuce, he’d’ve been born with long ears and a fluffy white tail. Sam didn’t dare his Mam’s sharp tongue himself, though. No, he’d been a good lad and dutifully eaten his rabbit-food, though he doubted that the rabbits would have liked quite so much dressing on theirs. Since Bell's death, such greenstuff made but a rare appearance on the dinner table at Number 3. Marigold knew herself unequal to fighting an already lost cause.
But it were true that Sam had never seen a really fat rabbit, so perhaps Gertie Harbottle had the right of it.
As his master completed his purchases, and Sam’s pack filled up with every little extra he could prevail upon Frodo to buy - taking seriously the fact that Rosie appeared to think Mr Frodo were fading away - every other vendor in the market place seemed to take it into his head to remark upon Sam’s fitness for the task, hinting at vast size, rather than strength, Sam could feel it.
And to cap it all, on the way back to Bag End, he had turned, and caught sight of their shadows behind them on the road. Though both were elongated by the late afternoon sun, there could be no doubt that one was a deal wider than the other. Even Mr Frodo's soft voice, recounting Mrs Fielding’s sly tease of him, for having left the post office without his purchases, couldn’t erase Rosie’s cuttingly apt remark, echoing in Sam’s ears even then - ‘He’s the shadow and you’re the bulk!’
And perhaps Mr Frodo did think that Sam was too fat.
Sam had glanced down at his belly. It weren’t much by hobbit standards. Set next to Will Dumpling, say, he’d have looked as much a shadow as Mr Frodo looked next to him. But, happen Mr Frodo got to hear the sly remarks, and were embarrassed by them? Happen he might think Sam would get too stout to fulfil his duties in the garden? Sam knew personally of one or two instances of hobbits who had had to take to a different trade, once their girth got the better of them. Stood to reason you couldn’t stay a Quick Post runner, when a fast toddle was all you could manage, nor a chimney sweep, once your belly was too big to fit down the flue.
Nor a gardener, if you got too fat to bend to the weeding...
He had made up his mind, instantly, that he must follow poor Gertie’s example, and live on unadorned greenery for a while, so as not to look too big to be seen in his master’s company, let alone to ward off the dread spectre of dismissal due to excessive dimensions.
There followed a miserable week of nigh-on starvation, chewing naked lettuce in secret in the tool shed, and constraining himself into almost total self denial when he was absolutely obliged to put in an appearance at one or other of the tables at which his presence was expected. It hadn’t done much to diminish his belly. All it seemed to have achieved was to set Marigold’s and Mr Frodo's backs up because he was only picking at the meals they put before him. That, and to make him quite light-headed from hunger.
And he didn't like all the fibbing, not one little bit.
But it was a fair exchange, he reminded himself, if his resolve faltered for the merest second. For every fine roast dinner, every sticky pudding and glass of ale declined, every crisp and insubstantial lettuce leaf consumed instead, might be worth another week - another day even - in Mr Frodo’s employ. It was only when he had forced himself to contemplate not working at Bag End, that Sam had admitted to himself at last just how much Frodo meant to him. A mere adolescent crush didn’t last from childhood to late tweens, didn’t make your future bleak and empty when you thought of losing the one person to whom you were closest… whom you loved with everything in you; didn't seem like to break your heart.
Aye, he’d do a sight more than eat lettuce to stay by Mr Frodo’s side.
But the magnificent chocolate/cherry/cream confection, made by Frodo’s own fair hands, had been a terrible test of Sam’s resolve. He really hoped that Mr Frodo had not taken too much offence at his refusal to accept more than a sliver of such a delicacy. His guilt was compounded by the fact that he more than half suspected his master to have baked with chocolate and used the cherries because he knew how partial Sam was to them. And he knew, himself, just how good it felt to have your best efforts properly appreciated, but he couldn’t actually explain why he had refused to eat more of the cake, not without feeling downright awkward, or even putting into Mr Frodo’s mind the awful possibility that a thinner gardener might well be more efficient.
What had made it far, far worse, though, was the fact that Frodo had managed to get cream all over his fingers as he had diminished Sam’s portion, at his request. It had taken a real effort for Sam to close his own mouth as his tongue leapt to the ready, and he’d had to avert his face, as Frodo licked and sucked away every trace of the offending substance. He had somehow managed to suppress his whimper completely, and he thanked the stars that he were sat where the table could hide the effect all that suction were having on him. He’d had to swing his tool belt around, though, when he got up, or his master would have noticed the problem for sure; ‘tweren’t exactly small enough to hide, right then, belly notwithstanding.
Delicious though the cake had been, and starved though he might feel, Sam’s mind had not, at that point, been entirely given over to thoughts of eating.
He sighed now, as he trundled the wheelbarrow back to the heap for another load of compost. He set it down and grasped the muck fork, but instead of using it to dig deep and fill the barrow, he leaned on it (even knowing what his Gaffer would have said, had he caught a glimpse of such slack-handed idleness) and allowed his thoughts to wander.
They seemed pretty keen on following the trend set up by that cake. And not even how hungry Sam was to eat of it, neither; but how much more wonderful the cream would have tasted, could he have been the one to clean those long, elegant fingers, and how he could think of other things far more worthy of decorating with fruit… Before he knew it, his imagination was spreading cream generously where cream was never meant to be spread, and was causing Mr Frodo to quiver and moan in the most gratifying manner, as Sam’s tongue chased wanton cherries hither and yon, and sought out cream from even the unlikeliest of places as he diligently relieved Frodo of one warm, smooth coating before coaxing from him another, warmer still…
He should stop this. ‘Tweren’t proper to think of Mr Frodo thus, and ‘tweren’t sensible to think about any kind of food, not with his stomach demanding to know if his throat had been cut. Desire and hunger were not a sensible combination, when the result was a giddiness that came between Sam and his work.
Dragging his mind reluctantly back to the present, he sighed and thrust his fork into the heap. ‘Well,’ he said aloud, ‘Gaffer allus has said as a proper-made compost should look good enough to eat, and so it does, but I never thought as I’d be that desperate!’
‘Sam? If you are that desperate, why didn’t you eat anything for tea?’
Startlement, light-headedness, and the shock of knowing that Mr Frodo had heard his plaint, combined to send Sam staggering sideways. He toppled over the barrow and ended up flat on his back, on the path at Frodo's feet.
‘Sam!’ Frodo was there, on his knees, in an instant. ‘Sam, are you all right? Say something, Sam!’
Sam’s giddiness was suddenly increased many fold by his master’s fingers: light upon his forehead, taking his hand to feel the pulse at his wrist, and then undoing a couple of buttons at the neck of his shirt, presumably to help him breathe the better.
If that were Mr Frodo's intention, he failed in it, quite comprehensively. What breath hadn’t been knocked out of Sam by the fall, vanished in a long gasp, as Frodo's hand trailed beneath his shirt, possibly to check his heart beat? Well, whatever that hand was supposed to be doing, the effect as it brushed his right nipple was far reaching, instantaneous, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the state of Sam's health.
The sharp thrill of renewed desire shocked Sam into an attempt at speech. ‘M- Mr F-’
‘Shhh, Sam, don't try to speak.’
This rather contradicted what Mr Frodo had previously said, but Sam didn't really need the admonition, being now struck completely dumb by his master's face, just inches above his own, and looking at him with such concern. The worry that Sam saw there, as Frodo traced a slow line along the edge of Sam's jaw, dissolved his insides to a melting medley of tenderness, longing, and just sheer love.
Sam closed his eyes, the better to appreciate what that gentle touch was doing to him. Not that he’d be able to stop here like this for long, of course. There’d be things needing his attention very shortly, preferably at the opposite end of the garden from Mr Frodo (or maybe within the private confines of the garden shed, if he found he couldn’t walk so far.)
‘Samwise! My dearest Sam, where does it hurt?’ Frodo was leaning close now, his breath puffing warm over Sam’s cheek. The necessity for a visit to the further reaches of the garden loomed ever nearer. An involuntary whimper escaped him, but if Mr Frodo chose to think that it was from pain, so much the better, if it meant that this soft stroking might continue.
In truth, his thighs had come into quite painful contact with the barrow handles, but if admitted to, he wouldn’t put it past Mr Frodo to want a closer look, the way he was taking on so. And Frodo’s hands on his bare legs, that high up, would rapidly obviate all need even for the shed’s concealment - ‘twould all be out in the open. As it were.
And that would take some explaining, and no mistake.
But Mr Frodo had pulled away now, and fallen quiet; Sam tried a small moan of encouragement (though, of course, it was really for the terrible ache in his… legs), then a rather larger one, which was mostly disappointment, for neither caring touch nor that solicitously stimulating voice resumed. Sam risked a peep through his lashes. Frodo was smiling broadly.
‘Samwise Gamgee - you are a fraud!’ And he giggled. Mr Frodo actually giggled.
‘I never, sir!’ Sam struggled onto one elbow, but Frodo pushed him down again, following closely, so his mouth was but a breath above Sam’s.
‘And moreover, I think that there are things you are keeping from me.’
He wasn’t sure what things Mr Frodo meant but they were his for the taking, so long as ever he would lean over Sam so close and, oh, just look at him like that. Though, of course, if he could consider stroking Sam’s face (or any other part of him) once more…
But Frodo went one better.
‘If you are going to protest, Sam, you had better do it right now. Because otherwise,’ Frodo paused for effect, tracing a finger across Sam’s lips, ‘otherwise, I am very much afraid I shall kiss you anyway.’
Protest? Did Mr Frodo think he were stupid? He might not quite see the reason for this most wonderful turn of events, but no-one had ever been able to accuse Sam Gamgee of failing to strike while the iron was hot. So to speak.
By the time that Frodo broke the kiss to allow Sam to breathe, the iron had passed well beyond hot, hurtled without pause through red hot, and progressed so far into the realms of white hot that he were imminent danger of total combustion. And he rather doubted that the mythical blue heat of which he’d once heard the blacksmith speak with reverence as almost unattainable, could possibly be any hotter than what he could see, burning him up in Mr Frodo’s gaze.
‘H-how did you know?’ he stuttered.
Frodo’s eyes kept Sam hovering very near to flash point, even as his fingers sauntered southwards.
‘This,’ he said, drawing a fingernail lightly over the front of Sam’s breeches. Sam nearly ignited, right then. ‘This is scarcely what one looks for in an injured hobbit, and since there’s no-one else here, I rather hoped it was for me?’
Now there was a hint of doubt in Frodo’s voice, and Sam couldn’t be having that.
‘Always for you,’ he said, breathlessly but with all the conviction and love he could muster.
Frodo was still a little hesitant. ‘Really for me, Sam? What about Rosie? I saw her flirting with you.’
‘Flirting? She was telling me- ’ Oh dear - well, it would have to come out now. ‘She was telling me how fat I look, stood next to you.’
‘Fat? So that’s why- Oh Sam, you are a wonderful figure of a hobbit! All that any hobbit could want and more.’
‘Any hobbit? Just any hobbit don’t matter to me, sir. I only want-’
‘This hobbit.’
‘Are you sure, s-?’ Sam’s question drowned in another kiss, this one long and loving, far out-matching any he could ever have dreamed - though in truth, his dreams of Mr Frodo had not often involved kissing, except as a brief prelude. It came as a surprise that Frodo’s mouth could be by turns, so hot and so demanding, and yet so softly alluring; his tongue designed to caress and beguile wherever it touched, yet flicker and twist against his own to wind desire ever higher - to tie Sam’s heart irrevocably to Frodo’s as smoothly as he would a knot in a cherry stalk.
‘Of course I’m sure, Sam!’ Frodo said at last. ‘Although - perhaps,’ the love in his eyes suddenly took on a wicked gleam, ‘perhaps I ought to check. I mean, see that the goods aren’t damaged, and so on…’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Sam agreed with alacrity, for his problem had merely stalled for the time being, as he shared the sweet delights of Frodo’s lips. It showed no signs of going away without assistance. In fact…
“Er - it’s my legs. Thighs, actually. I think- ’
Thinking was immediately abandoned, as Frodo slid a hand teasingly up each thigh, under the trousers. The rest of Sam went rigid, too.
‘Hmm,’ Frodo said. ‘I really can’t tell if there’s any bruising, without a closer look. I shall have to remove your breeches, Sam, I hope you don’t mind?’ With no demur (possible) from Sam, he suited action carefully to words, as he noted, ‘Isn’t it lucky that the compost heap is so well hidden? Absolutely no possibility of prying eyes to embarrass you!’
Sam’s response was completely incoherent, due to a long slow slide of Frodo’s fingers, without hindrance of fabric between. (It should be admitted, however, that by this time Sam would probably not have noticed if half the Shire had been peering over the fence, and Ted Sandyman selling tickets to the rest.)
‘Oh dear!’ Frodo’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, his tone one of great concern, underpinned with another of those giggles. ‘The swelling is... most noticeable, Sam. Perhaps I should kiss it better?'
That, and a slight chill of air as Frodo breathed in, were all the warning Sam had.
The long delayed release of desire pent up, the sudden heat of his mouth upon Sam, and the deliciously deft action of his fingers, rather lower, meant that Frodo had very little warning, either…
Not that either of them was complaining.
As Sam managed to open his eyes once more, Frodo was moving in for another kiss, licking his lips around the smuggest grin Sam had ever seen. This kiss was also a reminder - by turns suggestive, loving, imploring, loving, demanding, loving…
And when his lips were freed so that Frodo could breathe ‘Saaaam?’ hopefully, into his ear, Sam felt that pleading purr all the way down to his… toes.
But his sense of propriety was severely affronted, now that a small part of his brain was free to remember such matters. It were one thing for a gardener to be half naked next to his compost heap, quite another for the master to contemplate such a course. Besides which, these flagstones were hard, and quite chilly, beneath him, and he’d not like to think that Frodo…
He reached to stroke Frodo gently, his own desire stirring once more to match the firm swelling concealed under cloth. ‘Can we go inside for you?’ he asked shyly. ‘I want to do this proper, for you.’
‘I think I can wait that long, Sam! Though I hope we can be very improper when we get there. Please?’ He looked at Sam from beneath lowered lashes, and Sam could have sworn that a blue fire shot sparks at him - real or not, they had a definite kindling effect. A distinct incitement to conflagration, in fact. Sam’s struggle back into his breeches was suddenly more difficult as there was even more to get back into them. (The compost heap might be secluded, but it were a fair distance between here and the back door, and who knew but they might be overlooked along the way?)
He swallowed. ‘Funny you should say that, sir. When you surprised me, I were thinking about that cake- ’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sam, you must be starving!’ The thought that his Sam might fade away from lack of sustenance, strengthened Frodo’s resolve that he could wait, of course he could. Just not too long. ‘There‘s lots left - come and have a real tea, and then we can- ’
Sam stopped him with a kiss. ‘Well, not to say that I’m not hungry, but I was thinking more about that cake, and all the cream, and those cherries - and you... And happen that way, I could, um, satisfy both of us at once?’
‘What are we waiting for?’ Frodo’s face lit up with a smile that brought Sam’s eager stirring to the full. He winced a little as he began to walk (of course, there was the bruising on his thighs, as well.)
‘You are hurt, Sam!’
‘Nay, sir - you were better than arnica! Another application or two when we get indoors, and I’ll be right as rain - exhausted, I don't doubt, but I'm thinking that'll only be fair...'