A celebratory offering. FIC: Due Deference F/S PG
Posted in honour of the fact that it is one whole year since I had a cigarette. And since my partner is still a chain smoker who tends to leave them burning in ashtrays under my nose, I think that I have room for self-congratulation. GO ME! *preens mightily* (This has nothing whatsoever to do with the "story"!)
This is just another piece of nonsense. I was writing Tirielfluff™ with an entirely different perspective (perhaps not entirely different...) and Sam kept looking at Frodo, and Frodo - well, anyway, this thing - I hesitate to call it a story - wrote itself. Posted now only for those with no sense of self-preservation where fluff is concerned.
Title: Due Deference
Summary: Fire without smoke
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money
Warning: Purists would do well to avoid.
A/N: Hugs and thanks to The Usual Suspect, for beta and so much more
Fluff, think fluff, when you read my stuff™
Folk thought that Samwise Gamgee was inordinately deferential.
True, Mr Frodo Baggins was the Master of Bag End - indubitably so, all signed and sealed in sufficient red ink to silence even the Sackville-Bagginses (though to their great and scarcely concealed annoyance). Mr Baggins had obtained both his inheritance and his majority on the day of that infamous party, when old Mr Bilbo had vanished - literally - in such mysterious circumstances. And as the Master, Mr Frodo Baggins should, doubtless, be accorded all due honour and respect.
But Sam Gamgee surely took it much too far. Servants were, of course, not permitted to stare their masters in the face; never to rest eyes on one at all was generally agreed to be somewhat excessive. On the rare occasions they were seen together, Sam was noticed never to look directly at Mr Frodo Baggins. He would observe the ground at his feet, or concentrate on a point on the wall, or watch a tree or the sky behind Mr Baggins - his gaze anywhere, in fact, other than on his master.
Such exchanges as there were between them, would be terse and limited to essentials, and so, inevitably, there had been rumours that they were at outs, and that soon enough the Gamgee lad would be seeking a new situation. Not that he would have needed to look very hard to find another. Many a gentlehobbit would be urged by his good lady to engage the services of so excellent a flower gardener, and any establishment with a large and productive kitchen garden would have been delighted to benefit from his expertise. Efforts had indeed been made to entice Sam from his present employment. Even so frugal a householder as Mistress Lobelia had spoken hastily to him, of increased wages and improved conditions; unsure whether to regret the offer or the refusal, when Sam had declined, with just sufficient hesitation to remain polite.
Time had passed, and the deferential Gamgee and the solitary Baggins continued in their respective positions with never a hint either of dismissal or of resignation. Mr Bilbo had disappeared a dozen or more years ago now, and the docility displayed had not diminished; if anything, it had increased, and Samwise still appeared to be content with his place, despite his seemingly enforced submission.
Not that harsh words were ever actually heard between the two - from either of the two. In fact, if they hadn’t ignored each other quite so completely, they ought to have got along very well, for Mr Baggins was a genial sort, when conversing with anyone apart from Samwise, and Sam himself the cheeriest of fellows, out of his master’s presence.
The interested could recall a time when Sam would accompany his new master to market, walking behind him in the manner of a well-trained servant, as Sam took over more and more of the duties in the otherwise servant-less household; that had ceased, a year or ten back. Now, contrary to all accepted practice, the Master visited the shops of Hobbiton or Bywater without benefit of anyone to carry his purchases for him; he might indeed be seen with his own hands full of lighter packages. The local carriers naturally saw nothing wrong with the fact that they had a fee-paying journey to Bag End, should there be a delivery of substance to be made.
Household marketing was of course done by Sam alone, his demeanour perfectly normal as he went about the business of stocking pantries, cellars and wood shed on behalf of the household on The Hill.
Sam’s erstwhile friends - Sam no longer had so much time, it seemed, to spend with the companions of his growing years, tied as he was to the demands of so querulous and exigent a master - such friends would seize upon the opportunity to exchange greetings as he visited shop or market; but they noted rather a preoccupied look to him, as though lengthy chats were out of the question, when he must hurry back to serve the needs of said master. Must be nice to be waited on, hand, foot and finger, whispered those indignant on Sam’s behalf, though surely there should be a limit to what might be expected of a servant?
For many a long day, local opinion had debated the mystery, torn between preservation of the accepted social order - as laid down by Shire custom from time immemorial - and defence of one of the most popular and obviously downtrodden young hobbits in all of the West Farthing, never mind Hobbiton itself. Explanation was sought in vain from the solidly and unusually silent Gamgee household, of the rights and wrongs of the situation. And matters had finally been accepted as they were, though there would be still, an occasional lifted eyebrow and a heartfelt sigh into a tankard of ale, at the thought of Samwise, so cowed that he dared not raise his eyes before his Master.
And yet…
Sam wiped his feet carefully on the rough and bristly mat under Bag End’s porch. The roads were dusty in the heat of Afterlithe, and there weren’t no sense in bringing in more of it than necessary; he might not be afraid of work, but he didn’t go making it neither. He negotiated the door, despite the heavy basket on his arm, stepped within and shuffled his feet once more, this time into a more welcoming rug which tickled as much as it cleansed.
Making directly for the pantries, he sorted his purchases. Sweet butter and a variety of hard cheeses were laid onto thick paper, directly on the cool stone-slab table. The new season’s jams, and a couple of small jars of the rare lemon curd, he lined neatly on the wooden shelves above, noting that the marmalade was running very low, and regretting that he had been unable to buy some of it today. No sense really, in wishing for what weren’t in season, but Mr Frodo was very partial to a dark, coarse cut marmalade. The sticky pastries went onto a plate to await teatime; an extravagance, he knew, when there were still cakes and buns aplenty from the last bake, but he hadn’t the hand with flaky pastry that Bob Leathersole had, and that were a fact. Bob made exceptionally good bread, too; a fat cob, a dozen crispy rolls and a couple of fruit loaves soon replenished the depleted bread bin.
Carrying a second fresh-baked loaf, a dish of soft, herby cheese and a dozen of his own baked biscuits, Sam emerged at last into the kitchen, to meet the pleasing combination of aromas from a soup - mushroom? - simmering happily to itself on the hob, and a plum crumble browning to a good crisp in the top oven, its accompanying custard setting gently in a water bath below. Satisfied that all was in hand for a most enjoyable lunch, he set the table quickly, cutting generous chunks of the new bread onto a plate, and putting tea to steep. When he stepped back, to check that all was ready, there seemed but one omission.
His steps were soundless along the passage to the study, and the door opened with never a creak. Mr Baggins was seated at the desk, and gave no sign of having heard his servant’s return, continuing to complete columns in a great ledger. Sam paused, standing in silence, hands clasped behind his back.
Then, with a mischievous grin, he raised his head and looked at his master.
Immediately, the quill faltered, ceased to move at all, and floated gently down to the floor, scattering a little more ink into the pattern of drips already there. No matter what Samwise tried, ink spots were indelible once they dried on, enduring testament to many such moments.
“Sam.” A soft and smiling whisper.
“You guessed!” Sam strode quickly across to the desk, to catch Frodo around the waist and bury his face in his hair.
“How could I not? You looked at me...”
It was ridiculously embarrassing, but true: Frodo really could feel Sam’s gaze upon him. A delicious tingle would begin, wherever Sam’s eyes alighted - just now, between his shoulder blades. It had crawled stealthily up his neck, seeming to tease each individual hair on his head, until even his eyebrows felt to move beneath a subtle touch. The shiver trickled slowly down his spine, and along each limb, flowing out in sparkles to every nerve end, until each furthest part knew that Samwise was here.
Had it stopped at that, Frodo would have coped better, warmed and happy in the knowledge of his Sam’s proximity, no more. But, attention gained, the frisson would retreat, gathering heat and intensity as it rolled slowly, inexorably inward to converge in a vast and demanding desire that took away Frodo’s breath. He would pale, first, and then a rosy flush would start, as his skin demanded fulfilment of his need. Heat rose in waves; his chest became a battleground of colour and want, nipples tautening, though the sensation of throbbing could not be real - not there, at least. And from the way the blood crept hot beneath his skin, staining his cheeks, flushing his lips to an inviting red, there should have been none spare, to enflame other places, too…
Years together, yet one look from Sam could have this effect upon him still. And, inconvenient though it might be at times, the rewards when they were alone were more than compensation; Frodo would have it no other way.
Lunch was rather late that day.
Again.
This is just another piece of nonsense. I was writing Tirielfluff™ with an entirely different perspective (perhaps not entirely different...) and Sam kept looking at Frodo, and Frodo - well, anyway, this thing - I hesitate to call it a story - wrote itself. Posted now only for those with no sense of self-preservation where fluff is concerned.
Title: Due Deference
Summary: Fire without smoke
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money
Warning: Purists would do well to avoid.
A/N: Hugs and thanks to The Usual Suspect, for beta and so much more
Fluff, think fluff, when you read my stuff™
Folk thought that Samwise Gamgee was inordinately deferential.
True, Mr Frodo Baggins was the Master of Bag End - indubitably so, all signed and sealed in sufficient red ink to silence even the Sackville-Bagginses (though to their great and scarcely concealed annoyance). Mr Baggins had obtained both his inheritance and his majority on the day of that infamous party, when old Mr Bilbo had vanished - literally - in such mysterious circumstances. And as the Master, Mr Frodo Baggins should, doubtless, be accorded all due honour and respect.
But Sam Gamgee surely took it much too far. Servants were, of course, not permitted to stare their masters in the face; never to rest eyes on one at all was generally agreed to be somewhat excessive. On the rare occasions they were seen together, Sam was noticed never to look directly at Mr Frodo Baggins. He would observe the ground at his feet, or concentrate on a point on the wall, or watch a tree or the sky behind Mr Baggins - his gaze anywhere, in fact, other than on his master.
Such exchanges as there were between them, would be terse and limited to essentials, and so, inevitably, there had been rumours that they were at outs, and that soon enough the Gamgee lad would be seeking a new situation. Not that he would have needed to look very hard to find another. Many a gentlehobbit would be urged by his good lady to engage the services of so excellent a flower gardener, and any establishment with a large and productive kitchen garden would have been delighted to benefit from his expertise. Efforts had indeed been made to entice Sam from his present employment. Even so frugal a householder as Mistress Lobelia had spoken hastily to him, of increased wages and improved conditions; unsure whether to regret the offer or the refusal, when Sam had declined, with just sufficient hesitation to remain polite.
Time had passed, and the deferential Gamgee and the solitary Baggins continued in their respective positions with never a hint either of dismissal or of resignation. Mr Bilbo had disappeared a dozen or more years ago now, and the docility displayed had not diminished; if anything, it had increased, and Samwise still appeared to be content with his place, despite his seemingly enforced submission.
Not that harsh words were ever actually heard between the two - from either of the two. In fact, if they hadn’t ignored each other quite so completely, they ought to have got along very well, for Mr Baggins was a genial sort, when conversing with anyone apart from Samwise, and Sam himself the cheeriest of fellows, out of his master’s presence.
The interested could recall a time when Sam would accompany his new master to market, walking behind him in the manner of a well-trained servant, as Sam took over more and more of the duties in the otherwise servant-less household; that had ceased, a year or ten back. Now, contrary to all accepted practice, the Master visited the shops of Hobbiton or Bywater without benefit of anyone to carry his purchases for him; he might indeed be seen with his own hands full of lighter packages. The local carriers naturally saw nothing wrong with the fact that they had a fee-paying journey to Bag End, should there be a delivery of substance to be made.
Household marketing was of course done by Sam alone, his demeanour perfectly normal as he went about the business of stocking pantries, cellars and wood shed on behalf of the household on The Hill.
Sam’s erstwhile friends - Sam no longer had so much time, it seemed, to spend with the companions of his growing years, tied as he was to the demands of so querulous and exigent a master - such friends would seize upon the opportunity to exchange greetings as he visited shop or market; but they noted rather a preoccupied look to him, as though lengthy chats were out of the question, when he must hurry back to serve the needs of said master. Must be nice to be waited on, hand, foot and finger, whispered those indignant on Sam’s behalf, though surely there should be a limit to what might be expected of a servant?
For many a long day, local opinion had debated the mystery, torn between preservation of the accepted social order - as laid down by Shire custom from time immemorial - and defence of one of the most popular and obviously downtrodden young hobbits in all of the West Farthing, never mind Hobbiton itself. Explanation was sought in vain from the solidly and unusually silent Gamgee household, of the rights and wrongs of the situation. And matters had finally been accepted as they were, though there would be still, an occasional lifted eyebrow and a heartfelt sigh into a tankard of ale, at the thought of Samwise, so cowed that he dared not raise his eyes before his Master.
And yet…
Sam wiped his feet carefully on the rough and bristly mat under Bag End’s porch. The roads were dusty in the heat of Afterlithe, and there weren’t no sense in bringing in more of it than necessary; he might not be afraid of work, but he didn’t go making it neither. He negotiated the door, despite the heavy basket on his arm, stepped within and shuffled his feet once more, this time into a more welcoming rug which tickled as much as it cleansed.
Making directly for the pantries, he sorted his purchases. Sweet butter and a variety of hard cheeses were laid onto thick paper, directly on the cool stone-slab table. The new season’s jams, and a couple of small jars of the rare lemon curd, he lined neatly on the wooden shelves above, noting that the marmalade was running very low, and regretting that he had been unable to buy some of it today. No sense really, in wishing for what weren’t in season, but Mr Frodo was very partial to a dark, coarse cut marmalade. The sticky pastries went onto a plate to await teatime; an extravagance, he knew, when there were still cakes and buns aplenty from the last bake, but he hadn’t the hand with flaky pastry that Bob Leathersole had, and that were a fact. Bob made exceptionally good bread, too; a fat cob, a dozen crispy rolls and a couple of fruit loaves soon replenished the depleted bread bin.
Carrying a second fresh-baked loaf, a dish of soft, herby cheese and a dozen of his own baked biscuits, Sam emerged at last into the kitchen, to meet the pleasing combination of aromas from a soup - mushroom? - simmering happily to itself on the hob, and a plum crumble browning to a good crisp in the top oven, its accompanying custard setting gently in a water bath below. Satisfied that all was in hand for a most enjoyable lunch, he set the table quickly, cutting generous chunks of the new bread onto a plate, and putting tea to steep. When he stepped back, to check that all was ready, there seemed but one omission.
His steps were soundless along the passage to the study, and the door opened with never a creak. Mr Baggins was seated at the desk, and gave no sign of having heard his servant’s return, continuing to complete columns in a great ledger. Sam paused, standing in silence, hands clasped behind his back.
Then, with a mischievous grin, he raised his head and looked at his master.
Immediately, the quill faltered, ceased to move at all, and floated gently down to the floor, scattering a little more ink into the pattern of drips already there. No matter what Samwise tried, ink spots were indelible once they dried on, enduring testament to many such moments.
“Sam.” A soft and smiling whisper.
“You guessed!” Sam strode quickly across to the desk, to catch Frodo around the waist and bury his face in his hair.
“How could I not? You looked at me...”
It was ridiculously embarrassing, but true: Frodo really could feel Sam’s gaze upon him. A delicious tingle would begin, wherever Sam’s eyes alighted - just now, between his shoulder blades. It had crawled stealthily up his neck, seeming to tease each individual hair on his head, until even his eyebrows felt to move beneath a subtle touch. The shiver trickled slowly down his spine, and along each limb, flowing out in sparkles to every nerve end, until each furthest part knew that Samwise was here.
Had it stopped at that, Frodo would have coped better, warmed and happy in the knowledge of his Sam’s proximity, no more. But, attention gained, the frisson would retreat, gathering heat and intensity as it rolled slowly, inexorably inward to converge in a vast and demanding desire that took away Frodo’s breath. He would pale, first, and then a rosy flush would start, as his skin demanded fulfilment of his need. Heat rose in waves; his chest became a battleground of colour and want, nipples tautening, though the sensation of throbbing could not be real - not there, at least. And from the way the blood crept hot beneath his skin, staining his cheeks, flushing his lips to an inviting red, there should have been none spare, to enflame other places, too…
Years together, yet one look from Sam could have this effect upon him still. And, inconvenient though it might be at times, the rewards when they were alone were more than compensation; Frodo would have it no other way.
Lunch was rather late that day.
Again.