Fic: Clematis 2/3 G - NC17
Title: Clematis 2/3
Genre: Romance
Rating: This part G; will be R/NC17
Summary: A gift is given, tea is taken and the washing up is abandoned
Warnings: Awkwardly adolescent, as noted.
Less challenging now, perhaps, for the horticulturally unenlightened, but with a corresponding increase in the perilous proximity of First-Time.
No real change on the cliché front, of course, though our heroes take those initial, irredeemable steps along the distinctly downward decline that can lead only to the inevitable moral turpitude that constitutes the 3 S's… *happy sigh*
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money
Part II
As teatime drew near, Frodo set the kettle to boil and then dithered about the kitchen, abstractedly collecting a cup here, a spoon there, a mismatched plate from somewhere else, and generally achieving very little of use. When he heard the garden pump clank its usual warning that Sam would be here at any moment, he gave up all pretence of domestic efficiency, drew a deep breath and hurried to open the round green door.
Hovering in its shadow, he watched Sam stride purposefully into view and stop suddenly short, his face a clear conflict of bewilderment and delight. Frodo hugged his elbows, revelling in Sam’s surprise and obvious pleasure, in his wonder as he touched the plant with loving fingers and leaned close to breathe in the scent of spring.
Stepping forward then, torn between satisfaction at Sam’s delight, and his own nervousness, Frodo said, “I-It’s for you, Sam. I saw you at the market, looking at it, oh, the way I would at a new book, and I thought…”
He had thought of nothing else all afternoon, since Ned Appleby (having given up on the costive buyers in Hobbiton's market place) had delivered the plant before making his way home. He’d thought of nothing else since this morning, really, when he watched Sam reverently stroke the evergreen leaves with a faraway look in his eyes, and recognised the kinship with his own awe when faced with a fine volume.
As soon as Sam was safely occupied by Ma Goodbody’s interrogation, Frodo had given in to temptation, crossed to Ned Appleby’s stall and arranged to buy Sam’s plant. He was surprised by just how much it had cost, but he didn’t begrudge a single silver penny of it, not for something so beautiful - something that could put dreamy longing into Sam’s eyes like that…
All afternoon he'd paced the study - the entire smial - one half of him eager to see Sam’s reaction, the other convinced that he must have been out of his mind even to contemplate doing something so overtly-
Overtly what? Sitting abruptly at his desk, he put his face in his hands. What if Sam took it the wrong way? What if Sam also knew of the goings on at Brandy Hall where, Frodo remembered, expensive gifts - though not usually of plants - were the currency known to buy certain favours from at least a few of the servants? But this wasn’t - was not! - that kind of gift. He had not bought this in order to receive anything from Sam. He had bought it because he had seen Sam’s desire for it, and because Sam rarely expressed his own wishes. And because he so wanted to make Sam happy.
Frodo closed his eyes and saw again Sam’s fingers gently fondling the leaves. The skin of his cheek quivered as his imagination transferred the caress to his own face. Sam’s deft, capable hands fascinated Frodo, and there were times when he ached for the feel of them sliding gently - no, excitingly…
He thumped the desk with his fist, scattering quills and parchment, and narrowly avoiding a spill from the inkstand. He would not think of Sam in that way, that was not what this was about.
Drat it all, if I had to go and fall in love with someone, why did it have to be Samwise? But he knew the answer to that already. Sam drew him the way the sun draws the smallest flower. Sam’s presence was his own sunlight, and in that light, Frodo would feel himself relaxing; expanding like the petals of the windflower opening to warmth and blessing. And like the flower, when that light was withdrawn, he closed up to himself once more.
But Sam was hedged about by custom and the stern rigidity of the Gaffer’s codes on conduct. His future was mapped out for him, and the tightly drawn pattern of wife and family left no room whatever for the air dreams of a lovesick hobbit, Frodo thought wryly.
His own status as Master of Bag End and Sam’s employer simply added to the impossibility of Frodo’s every wish and longing. He could not put Sam in the difficult position of having to refuse the probably unwanted attentions of the one who held his livelihood in his hands. He could ruin Sam’s life if he… if he what? Well, what was he going to do?
Not a new question; one he’d been struggling with for many months, as their evenings of reading and talking and quiet silences over their pipes had become more and more central to his life. They might have begun as an antidote to the loneliness of Bag End without Bilbo, but by now they were more important to Frodo than anything.
He could no longer face life without the haven of content that settled over them both for a few hours; the wrenching pain of Sam’s departure after supper was a small price to pay. Somehow Sam had moved, quietly and unassumingly as always, from a child companion, to a dependable friend, to a necessity for Frodo’s existence.
And now he might have put all that in danger, if Sam-
“Begging your pardon, Mr Frodo. What did you say?”
“It’s for you, Sam.”
“But it’s not your birthday or anything.”
“No, it’s-I just thought-” Why was this so difficult? “I was-that is, I saw you at the market, admiring it, and I…” Stars above! Where were all his fine words when he needed them? “I could see how much you liked it and-and I wanted you to have it,” he finished in a rush.
“For me, Mr Frodo?” Sam still didn’t seem to take it in.
“For you, Sam. Now, if your plant will survive where it is for the time being, come inside and we’ll have some tea before we both freeze to death on the doorstep!” Frodo tried to lighten the moment.
The thought that he was keeping his master from his tea brought Sam back to earth. With a last backward glance at the beautiful - his beautiful gift! - he hurried to step inside and close the door against the gathering dusk.
“Thank you,” he said, though the words seemed such an inadequate return for so much - so much thought, setting aside what it must have cost (nigh on the price of one of Mr Frodo’s books, he shouldn’t wonder). That Mr Frodo had seen the wish in him, had read him like one of those books, and had-
Sam blushed, glad that the candles in the hall were as yet unlit, and the shadows thicker now. If Mr Frodo could see a wish like that in him, what else might he see, especially after his unguarded ruminations in the garden that very afternoon?
“You just sit by the fire and warm up again, Mr Frodo, and I’ll have the tea ready in no time.” He slipped away quickly to the kitchen, to collect both the tea things, and himself.
Frodo breathed a sigh of relief, warming in the knowledge that Sam was pleased, that he had managed to give something precious to Sam, who gave so much time and effort and attention to himself (setting aside other, far less intentionally bestowed effects). He collapsed into his chair by the parlour fire, feeling somehow as though he’d just run a hard race but emerged triumphant.
Sam completed Frodo's desultory attempt at a tea tray with appropriate allowances of china, with cutlery and the brimming teapot in its cosy jacket that he'd knitted himself under Belle's guidance several years ago and was still rather fond of (though it'd need mending with a new one, he thought, afore too long). He added butter and teacakes, and turnovers fresh from his morning foray at the market. He had that little treat in store for his master at least, though nothing could possibly balance the surprise Mr Frodo had sprung upon him.
Sam’s mind, meantime, was whirling with questions, but when he took the tray into the parlour and set it on the low table by the hearth, Frodo had one of his own - more words to ease the moment. “What is it, Sam? I admit that I haven’t the slightest idea beyond the fact that it seems to be some sort of climber.”
Sam busied himself toasting and buttering and pouring tea as he answered. “Armand’s clematis, sir and quite rare, too. Isn’t it beautiful? And the scent! For me, it smells like springtime itself.”
Frodo had stood awhile by the clematis as the pony cart had jingled and clopped its way into the distance. Closing his eyes, he had echoed Sam’s gentle fingers on its leaves, had breathed in the perfume, and lost himself in dreams and longing.
For Frodo, that heady fragrance would forever speak of Sam, and of what might never be.
“I still can't believe you bought it, sir - and I don't know how to thank you proper, neither!”
For an awful second, Frodo thought of Brandy Hall and panic loomed once more; but Sam's voice swept on in guileless excitement, and the momentary concern dissipated under weightier horticultural considerations.
“I remember Mr Bilbo and Dad talking about it, sir. Mr Bilbo was all for having one here but Dad seemed to think that it might be too tender for these parts, and he didn’t like the idea of getting one just to have it die. They bickered - begging Mr Bilbo's pardon, sir, but they did - they bickered about it on and off for ages.”
Sam's smile was softly reminiscent as he handed Frodo a plate of toasted teacakes, stiff with fruit and candied peel, well-browned and simply oozing with butter.
“Oh.”
Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea after all. The delicious morsel in Frodo’s fingers suddenly lost its appeal.
“Well, sir, there’s two ways of looking at it, to my mind. Dad tends to take the ‘better safe than sorry’ road, but I’ve always reckoned that you should never believe anything tender till you’ve killed it yourself - long as you’ve cuttings in the frame, so to speak.”
“Oh!”
Perhaps it had, if it encouraged Sam in such reckless experimentation. Frodo bit into the teacake and enjoyed every melting mouthful.
“Soon as I saw it, I knew exactly where it could go. It needs to face south, with a wall behind it and plenty of shelter from cold spring winds-” Sam was well into his stride, explaining to his master exactly which corner of Bag End’s garden would be most suited to what Frodo could only regard as the plant’s extremely exacting requirements.
Well, at least the initial awkwardness had eased away, with Sam bubbling with such enthusiasm. The fact that he became more desirable by the second because of it was a problem Frodo was almost used to coping with, though he’d never seen Sam quite so alight before.
Resorting to words as a defence once more, he asked, “But, Sam, are you sure you want to plant it here? At Bag End, I mean. It’s yours. Wouldn’t you rather plant it at home?”
A mistake. The light faded as Sam thought about the implications of what his Gaffer - what the whole neighbourhood - would say if he were to be seen to own such a fine thing.
Frodo could have kicked himself for such a crass, such an idiotic suggestion. He rushed back into words, trying to retrieve the situation. “No, of course, I see that might be difficult, your Gaffer having such a dislike for risk-taking. And anyway, I may own Bag End, but you make the garden the beautiful place that it is. It’s at least as much yours as it is mine, and I would be honoured if you wish to grace it with such a beautiful plant.”
He was gabbling now, and he knew it. Picking up a pastry, he filled his mouth simply to shut himself up; a Bob Leathersole apple turnover at its freshest and most delectable flakiness - and it was completely wasted on him.
Sam looked down at his plate. This time he should be thanking the firelight for hiding his colour in its cheerful glow, he thought, as an added warmth stained his face. Mr Frodo couldn’t really feel that the garden wasn’t his own, could he? Sam always tried to include his master in the planning and planting, but when it came down to it, he realised that in the end, the final decision on whatever it might be, was always his.
Guiltily, he tried to apologise for his- well, Gaffer would call it presumption, and no mistake. “Mr Frodo, I never meant you to feel- that is, I would never- it’s your garden, and I wouldn’t want…” he trailed off miserably.
“No, Sam, it most definitely is not mine. Ours, if you like, but not mine. And you shall plant whatever you like there - as long as I get to enjoy it too!”
“Well, of course, sir!” Sam agreed, but he needed time to think on this. He gathered up the remains of the meal and escaped as quickly as he could to the relative safety of the kitchen. A good thing washing up’s like garden routine, he thought briefly, going through the motions without seeing any of it.
Mr Frodo had not only given him the clematis; he seemed to be giving, well, half his garden, too. Not like that, he corrected himself, not splitting the garden in two, but sharing it with me, like I had a right to it!
“Sam?” Frodo’s voice came from the parlour. “Shall I come and dry things?”
“Er, no, Mr Frodo. I’ve nearly finished.” He hadn’t, but he didn’t quite feel ready to face his master again, not till he’d thought this through. Mr Bilbo and his Gaffer had ‘shared’ the garden, for more years than Sam cared to count, but there had never been any question of it belonging to any other than the Master of Bag End - he sloshed the water around aimlessly in the bowl - and now here was Mr Frodo-
“Sam?” Frodo had come up behind him so quietly that Sam jumped. Without another word he picked up a washed plate and began to dry it.
They worked in silence. It was not their usual, companionable silence, pinked from time to time with the odd, elliptic comment perfectly understood by the other as they considered the day’s activities, or a verse they had shared, or a solution which occurred to a problem lying fallow.
This silence stretched thin, until Frodo had to ask, “Sam, what’s wrong? I didn’t mean to make you feel, well, uncomfortable or anything.”
Better out than in, as Gaffer would have it. “Why did you say that, Mr Frodo?”
“Say what?” What could he have said to cause a withdrawal in Sam which was almost palpable? Had Sam realised at last that his gift of the clematis might be seen by some as payment for the sort of favours that Frodo had never, would never-
“About the garden. About it being-” a deep breath, “-ours.”
Frodo closed his eyes briefly in thankfulness that he could have been so wrong. How could he have believed that Sam would have such thoughts of him? Relief made his answer less guarded than it might have been.
“I’ve come to think of it that way. The same way we share books and meals and-” he scrubbed industriously at an already dried and polished cup, “-and just being together.”
A splash as the teapot hit the water rather harder than necessary. Sam gave up all pretence of washing up, and turned. Frodo was rubbing away at a teaspoon as though he were burnishing it, carefully avoiding Sam’s eyes.
“Being together,” Sam repeated softly.
“Yes.” The teaspoon sparkled in the lamplight as it clattered itself into the drawer; Frodo’s fingers had lost all power to hold. “I like being together, with you. I can’t imagine not being with you.” There, he’d said it, and if everything came tumbling down on top of him now, it would be his own fault. This time the bereavement would be of his own making, not fate or Bilbo’s wanderlust.
Sam smiled. Sweet stars, he was smiling!
“I-I feel the same, Mr Frodo. I always have done.”
“Well-well, that’s good, then,” Frodo babbled, reaching hastily towards the pile of washed dishes. His hand met Sam’s and clung as though to prevent a fall from the edge of the world.
Fingers entwined, they looked at each other wordlessly.
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