Merry Flistmas! Gift-fic: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show F/S G to NC17 14/?
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Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Second - Noon and after (14/?)
Summary: In which Bilbo has ideas, one of which is perhaps more enjoyable in the observance than the participation, though not without its compensations; Sam gets somewhat carried away, is granted a long-held wish, and discovers the hitherto unsuspected susceptibility of a portion of his anatomy...
Rating: Hm. Not G?
Extra A/N: (for enquiring minds that need to know)
Lest there be those who consider that I violate canon (in this respect, at least!):
After some time he felt for his pipe. It was not broken, and that was something. Then he felt for his pouch, and there was some tobacco in it, and that was something more. Then he felt for matches and he could not find any at all, and that shattered his hopes completely. Just as well for him, as he agreed when he came to his senses. Goodness knows what the striking of matches and the smell of tobacco would have brought on him out of dark holes in that horrible place.
The Hobbit, chapter five - Riddles in the Dark
Bowser, n. Forget pixellated game characters, a bowser is a large, horizontally cylindrical water tank, with wheels at either side and tap (faucet…) at the rear end, at about knee level; commonly used at agricultural shows (and the water tastes positively yucky). Somewhat like this, but for use at the Show subtract all refinements and take it back in time to iron-hooped wooden wheels! That was what I saw when the incident in question took its place in the story - being what I was used to at shows. But then (quite early last year!) my beloved beta, notabluemaia, read the chapter and her imagination invented a far more picturesque interpretation; she promptly drew for me the most wonderful picture contained herein! (What I like the very best about it is the mischief in Frodo's face - he knows exactly what he’s doing to Sam…)
ETA: Now with a second great illustration by the very talented Aina Baggins, which captures all the playfulness of the Breakfast. The watercolour original of this was a treasured birthday gift from my dear Frodosweetstuff!
Click to see see Aina’s wonderful pic, and Notabluemaia’s is here - though each in its talented way is a terrible spoiler for the story!
~~~
‘Ah, lads, there you are. Come along, come along! Today’s basket has all my favourites in it instead of yours, and I warn you that I’m as hungry as Will D-Mr Mayor after an over-long council meeting, so you’ll need to be sharp set to keep up with me!’
Bilbo bustled them off then to the judges’ tent, where the day’s provisions awaited them. In no time at all he had the basket open on a handy bale of straw, with Frodo and Sam side by side on another, the plates on their laps full enough even to satisfy His Worship, had he seen fit to join them. The claim that only his own favourites had been packed proved to be completely false, for amongst the many other good things were marinated chicken legs, crisp on the outside and spicy within, just the way Frodo liked them best; and the individual lemon meringue tartlets, completely undamaged in the travelling, were every bit as sweet and as sharp as when Sam had first enjoyed them.
‘I noticed you talking to Til, earlier, Sam,’ Bilbo said conversationally, reaching into his breast pocket for his best away-from-home pipe, as lunch drew to its very satisfactory conclusion. ‘Just time for this, I think.’
Sam wasn’t often given the chance at a top quality tobacco - likely Old Toby, too, he thought with regret - but he shook his head with a polite, ‘Thank you, sir, no,’ when offered a fill from the Master’s pouch. He felt sufficiently guilty as it was; Mr Bilbo couldn’t have known what he and Til had talked of, surely? He so often seemed to have eyes in the back of his head and to know more about most things than you thought he might. But there surely had to be limits even to Mr Bilbo’s all-knowing, all-seeing gaze. Didn’t there?
‘It’s quite remarkable how much better he looks at the Show.’ Bilbo busied himself tamping down tobacco into his pipe after Frodo also refused his offer, then felt for matches.
‘Yessir,’ Sam mumbled noncommittally. He turned his head very slightly to see Frodo peering back at him, his face unreadable.
‘I expect that you two have seen it as well, have you? Yes, I thought you might.’ Mr Bilbo didn’t explain what he meant by this but went straight on, ‘Well, not so very remarkable, I suppose, really. Three years they’ve been keeping company, you know.’
Both of Frodo's eyebrows disappeared into his hair now, and Sam quickly transferred his gaze to his own toes. Mr Bilbo knew about Til and Rafe? How could he, when Sam had only just noticed it himself, even though he’d known Til from both of them being little more than faunts, and had worked alongside him many a time since? But then, he supposed that Mr Bilbo had known and understood a lot more of life than he had; and anyway he might not have seen it even now if he hadn’t been so almighty aware of those who were in love, on account of the growing need for such a thing in himself. And if Mr Bilbo knew about them…
‘It’s a tricky problem,’ Bilbo pronounced, through a satisfying cloud of sweet-scented smoke (Sam had been correct - it was Old Toby), ‘and high time somebody took a hand, for the way they’re going it’ll be the same in ten years or thirty. I, for one, can’t wait that long to see them happy. They’re a pair of good lads, and fidelity should have its reward.’
As Mr Bilbo paused for a few contemplative pulls on his pipe, Sam wondered whether he might think the same of a gardener’s lad who had loved steadfastly for several years now, and sighed quietly into the confines of the picnic basket. Since he hadn’t been allowed to help one bit with the getting out of their lunch, he was making himself useful now, collecting up the (very few) leftovers and packing away emptied dishes and plates.
‘Now, it’s quite obvious that Til can’t leave the farm - it really is in his blood, and quite apart from how disappointed his parents would be, I don’t believe he would ever be truly happy without his connection to the land and to livestock. You have only to see him at work - he’s a stockhobbit through and through, and I don’t think he could give up that life, even for love. It is his life.
'He’ll have to adopt one of his sisters’ lads as heir, of course, but there’ll be plenty to choose from by the look of it. Shame about the name - there have been Oldacres at Netherfold farm since time out of mind - but,’ he looked at Frodo, serious now, ‘name or no, a chosen heir can sometimes turn out even better than one born.’
Frodo returned his gaze steadily, and Sam saw, shining clear, the love and allegiance between them. Truly, Mr Bilbo’s choice had been for the best, setting aside whatever it might mean for Sam Gamgee.
Bilbo cleared his throat then, and concentrated on his pipe for a minute or two before he resumed, ‘So, it’s from Rafe’s side that we must address the matter.’
We? Well, it wouldn't be betraying a confidence really, to report a simple fact, would it? ‘He can’t leave the Travelling, sir. I asked Til about it. That’s in his blood, Til says - it's all Rafe knows. He’s never been used to being in one place more than a month or two at a time at most, and it seems that that’s the way he must be. He follows the old paths, just as his family has always done.’
‘All we need, then,’ said Bilbo, as if it were as easy as asking the grocer to weigh out three pounds of flour and an ounce or two of peppercorns, ‘is something which will allow plenty of travel but will keep bringing Rafe Boswell-’ Sam was surprised again, for Mr Bilbo even knew his right name! ‘-back regularly to Hobbiton, and by the bye to Netherfold Farm.'
He took a slow and measured puff of his pipe, ostensibly considering the matter carefully, but knowing full well that both lads were hanging on his lightest word. 'You know, Sam, I was thinking only last market day when I caught sight of your Gaffer and old Bill Swire - sat there jabbering away twenty to the dozen like a pair of old gammers, they were - I was thinking that Bill was getting on rather, to be hiking and carting the length and breadth of the Shire the way he does.’
Sam hid his grin rather better than Frodo managed to stifle a snort. Mr Bilbo were coming up to his one hundred and tenth birthday, and he thought Bill Swire were getting on?
‘And,’ Bilbo went on, not without an almost-stern glance at Sam and a mock glare for Frodo, ‘it seemed to me that he ought to be on the lookout for a lad with a good head and heart and a strong back to take on the travelling - with him, for a start, and maybe in a year or ten, for him.’
'It sounds ideal,' Frodo said, 'but would Bill consider it? There are still many hobbits who don't really trust the Travellers, you know.'
'Oh, I think he might,' Bilbo said comfortably, 'if Rafe came on good recommendation. I've made quite a few enquiries since last year's Show, and I found no one with a bad word for him, but many a good. I think perhaps that later this afternoon would be an excellent time to have a quiet chat with Bill. Just put the proposition to him, you know. It may take a while for him to think his way around and through it, but I think we may expect a result before Yule.'
Sam smothered his protest, but Frodo said ‘Bilbo!’ at such a lengthy period of contemplation.
Bilbo said, a little touchily, 'Yes, yes, I know - you young folk think these things can be sorted in a day or two or a week at most. Well, it doesn't work like that, and this is the best that I can do!'
'We know, really!' Frodo said, with a great hug for his uncle. 'And you are the kindest, most thoughtful hobbit there ever has been in the whole of the Shire!'
Bilbo harrumph'd, but Sam could see how pleased he was by Frodo's outburst. Once freed, he cleared his throat again, more loudly this time, then tapped the dottle from his pipe (thankfully not dropped in the hugging) with a somewhat decisive air. ‘Now, it's rather fortunate that you should think that,’ he said, 'for I have a little something I’d like you to do for me, if you would. I’m sure it will be great fun, once you get underway.’
Frodo looked at Sam with a questioning brow.
Sam shrugged, discreetly. Hard by, on the bale next to the now re-packed lunch basket, lay the bundle left in the tent that morning by instruction - though why the Master would need those today, he couldn’t begin to guess. They might only be the patched and worn sheets he used to cover furniture and floors at Bag End when there were painting or white-washing to be done, but Sam knew there had to be far more to it than that.
As Bilbo opened them out, Sam noticed (for he’d not been able to resist having a good feel and then a peep at what had been so intriguing to his fingers as he carried it from the trap) that although there were still several towels, a pair of wooden spoons and more than a trace of rolled oats concealed within their folds, the large mixing bowl and the paper bag that had leaked from a tear in one corner were both missing.
‘Oh! Bilbo, no!’
It seemed that Frodo had realised suddenly what, even in its depleted state, this odd collection signified, and what was the nature of the promised ‘fun’. He was plainly not too keen on the idea, whatever it may be.
‘We’ll get stuck up to the skies!’
‘Well, yes, there is that, but think how much the little ones will enjoy it. You’ll be doing it for them!’ There was, though, a definite something in Mr Bilbo’s voice, Sam thought, that suggested the enjoyment might be as much his as anyone’s. ‘And it’s a nice warm day - you can sluice down afterwards and you’ll be dry in no time.’
‘But why?’
‘I simply thought that another small entertainment might be a nice idea. Not everyone wants to watch the stock being shown, and pockets are not bottomless for spending on Rides and sideshows, you know. It seemed a good idea to offer something completely free of charge and likely to be enjoyed by grownups and youngsters alike. In fact, I was so sure you would agree that I may have mentioned it to one or two people…’
Mr Bilbo’s words were all innocence, but Sam became immediately convinced that at least half the hobbits present on the Showground had been invited to attend whatever this promised treat may prove to be.
‘I should hate to disappoint the poor little mites, for this would amuse them greatly, if only for a while,’ he finished, with a sad shake of his head at the thought of what they would miss should Frodo refuse; but Sam caught the hint of a hidden smile and remembered Frodo having once confided that guilt was one of Bilbo’s most effective weapons against him.
‘Bilbo, you do remember why this is so unpopular with the matrons of Buckland?’
‘Yes, yes, but just think how much you enjoyed watching it when you were small. And,’ he added with a sly wink, ‘we don’t have to have breakfast in the same smial as the matrons afterwards! Don’t be such a wet blanket, Frodo! I’m sure Sam will agree to take part.’
He turned expectantly to Sam who, though as yet unsure of the details, knew already that whatever it was would happen, no matter what Frodo said. When the Master looked like that, few could stand against him.
‘What must I do, Mr Bilbo?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Nothing to it, Sam. You just feed each other porridge.’ Bilbo waved his hands airily. ‘As easy as that.’
Sam knew perfectly well from the look of disbelief on Frodo’s face that Mr Bilbo was not telling all, and awaited enlightenment.
‘Wearing blindfolds,’ said Frodo, tersely.
‘In fact,’ Bilbo swept in, possibly to divert any demur Sam might be about to voice, ‘I’ve thought of a nice little refinement they didn’t have at Brandy Hall - not the last that I saw of it, at any rate. Since porridge doesn’t show up very well on white - well, mostly white - sheets, when I called at the herbalist’s this morning for a pot of her finest salve, I got Mistress Earthy to mix up a tasty colouring for me.’ He fished a small bottle from his waistcoat pocket. Whatever it contained was quite the most lurid green that Sam had ever seen. Bilbo looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Of course, it won’t be quite so vivid once it’s mixed in. In fact…’
Sam realised the import of what Mr Bilbo had left unsaid, some time later, as he and Frodo sat facing each other over an upturned barrel. They were high on a flat-bed wagon that Bilbo had conjured up from somewhere, its floor also covered in the sheeting against the inevitable mess should a spoonful or two of the porridge go astray. Although the venue was of necessity a little way behind the busier areas of the Showground, Sam’s assessment of just how many folk had been advised of the event had not been so very far wrong. There seemed to be scores of youngsters, sitting cross-legged and watching the preparations with interest, their small faces clearly anticipating a great treat. Behind them sat or perched or stood as many or more grown hobbits; Sam wondered that they should be quite so nostalgic over what was to be a performance for the gratification of the small ones here, but resolved to do his best not to let his master down.
Frodo’s eyes were already bound; his hair, shining with darkly coppered highlights, and his mouth and chin were all that could be seen of him, the rest (wearing only work trousers, in order to spare shirt and cleaner clothes) was generously swathed, as were Sam and the barrel, in much-mended dust sheets. Between them on their makeshift table lay the large bowl, now holding a thick, cold porridge tinted to a pale and sickly hue. It made Sam rather glad that he would be wearing the blindfold Mr Bilbo was wrapping tightly about his head, when he had to eat it.
‘Now, listen to me, Sam - you’re not to hold back,’ Bilbo advised in a low tone, was laced with amusement. ‘You must forget that it’s Frodo and pretend he’s one of your brothers. Really let him have it!’
Whatever does he mean by that? He’d not want me to choke Mr Frodo, surely?
But Sam had no more time to wonder, for Bilbo was announcing in a loud voice, which to Sam’s ear contained a good deal of suppressed amusement already, ‘And now, lads and lasses young and old, for your delectation and delight, may I present - A Blindfold Breakfast!’
The hum of childish voices quieted for a second, and then rose appreciatively as Sam groped outward with his spoon to where he thought the bowl should be. He was concentrating so hard on filling it suitably that it came as quite a surprise when something which must also be a wooden spoon was thrust suddenly into his face, dripping cool and messy down his chin. He opened his mouth, took in as much as he could and swallowed; it didn’t taste too bad - well-sweetened, at any rate - despite the fact that it had looked positively repulsive. A chorus of ‘Eeewww!’ and a storm of giggles erupted from below.
Once he had the measure of where to find the stuff, he considered his first few spoonfuls to be well on target. He was pretty sure that several had landed in (or at the least very near to) Frodo’s mouth, and he had dutifully opened his own to receive more offerings. But whilst his attempts continued, he thought, to collide with Frodo within the correct area at least, he soon became convinced that Frodo could not be applying the same amount of care. What had just landed on the top of his head, for example, surely had to be the result of deliberate intent rather than accident? That small but distinct ‘Splat!’ (to an ecstatic reception from the youngsters) definitely indicated something falling from a deliberate height.
‘Mr Frodo!’ he whispered across their table. ‘That’s not exactly fair! How is that feeding me?’
‘Who said we were playing fair?’ Frodo whispered back, depositing another large dollop to slide stickily down the side of Sam’s face, not all of it diverted by his blindfold. And somehow, at that exact moment, the half-knot which was supposed to hold the sheet close in to Sam’s neck came loose, and a generous amount of cold porridge insinuated itself within, sliding stealthily down onto his bare chest. The lads and lasses might think it great fun to watch - judging by the racket they were making - but Sam decided now that the unfair distribution of this slickly sticky ooze had become more a matter for retaliation than enjoyment.
‘We aren’t playing fair?’ He needed to get this straight, no misunderstanding at all, now that he realised the permission Mr Bilbo had given him.
‘Never!’ accompanied a spoonful to Sam’s left shoulder.
‘If you say so, sir!’ Battle had been declared, Mr Bilbo had already sanctioned his actions, and Sam intended to use all the weapons at his disposal.
He stood up stealthily, face toward the crowd, and tapped a warning finger against his lips. There were many sharply indrawn ‘Oh!’s and not a few delighted shouts, muffled behind small hands, as the throng waited to see what Sam had in mind. He surveyed his quarry, for in truth he now had the very unfair advantage of being able to see under the bottom edge of his blindfold. Picking up the bowl, he tucked it under his arm and had to quell a distinct chortle at the sight of Frodo, still digging away with his spoon on the barrel where the porridge ought still to have been. Giggles erupted on every side, but Sam just grinned and refused to feel any guilt.
Careful not to fall over his sheeting, he advanced stealthily around the makeshift table, dabbing Frodo with porridge left, right and centre, the while. Once at his side, Sam dropped a laden spoonful to slide down Frodo’s front, took the dish in both hands and inverted it over his head, settling it carefully to resemble an oversized hat with a glutinously mobile veil. The noise from the crowd was almost deafening, now, and quite drowned out Frodo’s shocked (and rather muffled) cry of ‘Samwise Gamgee!’
Sam freed his eyes, and swept a bow to his deeply appreciative audience, some of whom were rolling around on the ground in convulsions of mirth; many, adults included, appeared to be weeping with merriment.
The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the wagon bed, with an outraged and glaring Frodo sitting athwart him, bowl and blindfold gone and sheet askew round his neck and body. Sam had only seconds to appreciate their relative positions before his face was spattered with drips from Frodo’s impressively porridge-laden hair, as Frodo caught his hands and forced them down by his head, to a massive cheer from the onlookers.
'Evens?' Frodo demanded - and then for a second it seemed that he forgot where he was, for one hand came down, and his thumb felt almost like a caress as he gently wiped away the viscous green slime that was about to trickle into Sam’s left eye.
‘Evens!’ Sam called loudly, wanting the touch to go on for ever but only too aware of their surroundings; and Frodo blinked, and leapt up, pulling Sam with him, so they could both raise victorious arms and bow repeatedly to the laughing, cheering crowd. Calls for an encore were decisively ignored, and they stepped down from the wagon.
‘Well done, lads, well done!’ Bilbo ushered them around to where ewers of hot water stood on the wagon back, along with basins of cool, awaiting their preference. ‘Frodo-’ He was perfectly composed when he began to speak, but the slow slither of porridge, in fat and disgustingly-coloured globules, was too much for him once more, and his words dissolved into laughter.
Frodo attempted to squeeze the worst of the mess from his hair, all the while threatening his uncle with the most terrible retribution when he had time to think up something sufficiently awful.
Sam simply stood stock-still, only too conscious at last of what he had just done.
Frodo’s beautiful hair - darkness itself spun out into tumbled silken curls, whose destiny was to be bronzed by the sun or frosted cool under moonlight (not that Sam had ever given the matter much thought) - and what had he done to it? He’d only gone and turned it into these ropes of palely viscous green now dripping their sickly burden over Frodo’s shoulders. Sam was so mortified that he couldn’t properly appreciate the smooth skin of honeyed cream beneath the trails of vile mucus; and he had no idea where he could even begin to apologise.
When Frodo gave up his harangue at Bilbo’s iniquities and turned to him, Sam was ready to stumble from explanation through apology into complete self-abasement - until Frodo’s words cut through his haze of blame.
‘That was simply and utterly brilliant, Sam - you are a genius to think of it!’ He was smiling through the thickly clinging mix of hair and oatmeal, and Sam could scarcely believe it. ‘I’m sure that was never so exciting - or so funny - when I was a lad! Oh, I wish I could have seen it! And I should love to be present at a few breakfast tables where porridge is served in the near future to any little lad or lass who watched you today!’
‘But, Mr Frodo, I should never have-’
‘Oh, but Samwise, you really should - it was most wonderful! Though I think I should like to be rid of it now. It’s amazingly chilling stuff, porridge, when it’s trickling down you.’ He appraised Sam’s own condition. ‘Well, I may not have been quite so inspired, but I did manage to get just a little of my own back. Beforehand, as it were!’
Sam‘s thinner and more random layer of porridge was beginning to feel quite unpleasant - almost as though it were setting on his skin - and Frodo was quite right about its temperature. Despite the sun, Sam shivered.
‘You wash it out of my hair, Sam, and I’ll do yours?’
The suggestion sent a shiver of a completely different kind through Sam, but he quelled it quickly and managed a nod. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Bilbo, sir, but I think Mr Frodo’s going to need more than them few jugfuls to get all that lot out.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with the bowser? Just stick your head under the tap, Frodo, and let Sam swish your hair around - that should do it.’
Frodo folded his arms as he glared at his uncle, somehow managing to look fierce even wearing a ridiculous coat of green slime. ‘There’s exactly one thing wrong with that, Bilbo. The water will be freezing!’
‘Not freezing, Frodo, not on a day like today,’ Bilbo said, in an annoyingly reasonable tone. ‘Just a little cool, that’s all. And there’s plenty of warm there, for a proper wash, after the worst has gone. Get on with you!’
There being no point in arguing with Mr Bilbo once his mind was made up, Sam led the way to the nearby bowser. The ground beneath the tap was already saturated, of course, and becoming quite muddy. Frodo rolled up his trouser-legs and knelt carefully to one side, still grumbling imprecations. Sam took up his position at the other, more than a little overwhelmed by the sight of Frodo, half-naked and kneeling at his feet, despite the fact that any remotely similar fantasy he may have had, definitely had not taken place in broad daylight, with folk milling about just the other side of a wagon. Nor, of course, had Frodo been burdened by anything quite so unpleasant upon his hair and skin (nor even by trousers, though he might have shown a slight sheen of oil).
There were, however, parts of Sam which refused to notice these minor differences, and which proceeded to react in their usual fashion. He ignored them as best he might - he’d had the practice, after all - and turned on the bowser’s tap, as Frodo bent low enough for the water to run through his hair.
‘Aaah! Ohhh! Goodness, that’s cold!’ Frodo said, his voice muffled and liquid. ‘Be quick, Sam - please!’
Sam positioned himself closer, refusing further tempting parallels within his mind in view of Frodo’s distress. He realised at once that he was quite right about the temperature - Mr Bilbo had definitely been over-optimistic as to the heating powers of Wedmath warmth on so large a volume of water. Sam knew because it was dissolving lumps of porridge straight from Frodo’s head to splash across his own feet. He plunged his fingers into the sticky curl-and-oatmeal pudding and worked them gently but swiftly to and fro. Alternately squeezing and stroking, he dragged the sludge carefully towards the end of each strand and flicked it off, spreading every lock into a stream of clear water.
At first Frodo muttered abuse of his uncle - half-formed and hurried threats of revenge voiced through gritted teeth - though these soon faded and he seemed to be shivering indeed. Sam thought he could feel the tension rise into his own fingers and he tried to massage the warmth of his love into Frodo's scalp. But as the mess thinned and was swept away, his concentration was stolen entirely by what flowed now beneath his hands.
For here was the longed for night-dark silk; sheen newly glossed, it spilled its softly sinuous curtain to waver through the clear cold stream, swaying seductively about Sam’s wrists, swirling through his fingers in a dizzying drift of dusky caresses...
Sam swallowed, hard. But his trial was to get worse.
Without warning, Frodo began to comb his fingers through Sam’s foothair, where dribbles and streaks of porridge had dripped and lingered still - and Sam’s control was almost breached.
He’d had no idea that a simple touch to his feet could possibly affect him in so intimate a way - this new and frisky tingle that that had started so unexpectedly as a sly skitter from toes to ankle and streaked up - Oh! There, yes! - to meet the arousal already risen so keenly.
‘No!’ he said, taking a quick step backwards. It sounded rather more forceful than he really meant it to, but he knew himself to be perilously close to the limit of the delights he could withstand before the inevitable occurred.
Frodo peered up at him, all hurt blue sparkle through the soft wash of black, and Sam rushed to say, ‘Can't have you catching cold, sir. You should get Mr Bilbo to pour some warm water over you, and then get dried, sir. I can do my feet and whatnot.’
‘But your hair too, Sam!’ Frodo protested, though he looked to be shivering in earnest as he rose carefully from amidst the muddy and now quite porridgy mire, to give knees and feet a quick swill under the tap before stepping away. He was squeezing excess water from his hair, and it was not only Sam’s fingers that twitched to the remembered texture.
‘I’ll manage, sir - I’ve nowhere near as much on me as you have, and it’s not all…’ He gestured weakly at the runnels of watered porridge left on Frodo’s torso - discoloured smears marring perfection (noting, though he tried hard not to, that distinct traces of oat remained, caught invitingly on each darkly peaked nipple…)
Hang propriety! part of him insisted. Get over there and lick it off!
‘Quite right, Sam, so he should! I’ll see to Frodo, now - you get yourself cleaned up.’ Bilbo appeared as though he had heard his name - or Sam’s wayward thoughts. He took his nephew by the elbow and led him away. ‘Don’t forget there’s plenty of warm water for you too, when you’re done here,’ he called over his shoulder.
Sam took a steadying breath and turned back to the bowser, forcing himself to kneel - most prudently - by the tap. He swished his hair a few times through the chilling stream, and by the time that he had washed feet and knees, and sluiced away the worst of what had run down his neck, cold water had given him back his composure. He was able to take up Mr Bilbo’s offer of warm with scarcely a tremor.
~~~
Chapter 15: Show Day the Second - Afternoon.
Chapter 13 was here and the story began with The Prologue
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This is my Christmas offering to my flist - I don't deserve you since I scarcely do lj at all, but I hope that you enjoy what I post. I wanted you to have this chapter today because it was the one which was most fun to write - as a reader you may not agree, but that's life! (In case you're wondering, a lovescene comes in a category all its own. As it were.)
I wish for you all the good things you would wish for yourselves, and that you have as happy and peaceful a day as is possible. However you conceive of him/her/it:
May your God go with you
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Second - Noon and after (14/?)
Summary: In which Bilbo has ideas, one of which is perhaps more enjoyable in the observance than the participation, though not without its compensations; Sam gets somewhat carried away, is granted a long-held wish, and discovers the hitherto unsuspected susceptibility of a portion of his anatomy...
Rating: Hm. Not G?
Extra A/N: (for enquiring minds that need to know)
Lest there be those who consider that I violate canon (in this respect, at least!):
After some time he felt for his pipe. It was not broken, and that was something. Then he felt for his pouch, and there was some tobacco in it, and that was something more. Then he felt for matches and he could not find any at all, and that shattered his hopes completely. Just as well for him, as he agreed when he came to his senses. Goodness knows what the striking of matches and the smell of tobacco would have brought on him out of dark holes in that horrible place.
The Hobbit, chapter five - Riddles in the Dark
Bowser, n. Forget pixellated game characters, a bowser is a large, horizontally cylindrical water tank, with wheels at either side and tap (faucet…) at the rear end, at about knee level; commonly used at agricultural shows (and the water tastes positively yucky). Somewhat like this, but for use at the Show subtract all refinements and take it back in time to iron-hooped wooden wheels! That was what I saw when the incident in question took its place in the story - being what I was used to at shows. But then (quite early last year!) my beloved beta, notabluemaia, read the chapter and her imagination invented a far more picturesque interpretation; she promptly drew for me the most wonderful picture contained herein! (What I like the very best about it is the mischief in Frodo's face - he knows exactly what he’s doing to Sam…)
ETA: Now with a second great illustration by the very talented Aina Baggins, which captures all the playfulness of the Breakfast. The watercolour original of this was a treasured birthday gift from my dear Frodosweetstuff!
Click to see see Aina’s wonderful pic, and Notabluemaia’s is here - though each in its talented way is a terrible spoiler for the story!
~~~
‘Ah, lads, there you are. Come along, come along! Today’s basket has all my favourites in it instead of yours, and I warn you that I’m as hungry as Will D-Mr Mayor after an over-long council meeting, so you’ll need to be sharp set to keep up with me!’
Bilbo bustled them off then to the judges’ tent, where the day’s provisions awaited them. In no time at all he had the basket open on a handy bale of straw, with Frodo and Sam side by side on another, the plates on their laps full enough even to satisfy His Worship, had he seen fit to join them. The claim that only his own favourites had been packed proved to be completely false, for amongst the many other good things were marinated chicken legs, crisp on the outside and spicy within, just the way Frodo liked them best; and the individual lemon meringue tartlets, completely undamaged in the travelling, were every bit as sweet and as sharp as when Sam had first enjoyed them.
‘I noticed you talking to Til, earlier, Sam,’ Bilbo said conversationally, reaching into his breast pocket for his best away-from-home pipe, as lunch drew to its very satisfactory conclusion. ‘Just time for this, I think.’
Sam wasn’t often given the chance at a top quality tobacco - likely Old Toby, too, he thought with regret - but he shook his head with a polite, ‘Thank you, sir, no,’ when offered a fill from the Master’s pouch. He felt sufficiently guilty as it was; Mr Bilbo couldn’t have known what he and Til had talked of, surely? He so often seemed to have eyes in the back of his head and to know more about most things than you thought he might. But there surely had to be limits even to Mr Bilbo’s all-knowing, all-seeing gaze. Didn’t there?
‘It’s quite remarkable how much better he looks at the Show.’ Bilbo busied himself tamping down tobacco into his pipe after Frodo also refused his offer, then felt for matches.
‘Yessir,’ Sam mumbled noncommittally. He turned his head very slightly to see Frodo peering back at him, his face unreadable.
‘I expect that you two have seen it as well, have you? Yes, I thought you might.’ Mr Bilbo didn’t explain what he meant by this but went straight on, ‘Well, not so very remarkable, I suppose, really. Three years they’ve been keeping company, you know.’
Both of Frodo's eyebrows disappeared into his hair now, and Sam quickly transferred his gaze to his own toes. Mr Bilbo knew about Til and Rafe? How could he, when Sam had only just noticed it himself, even though he’d known Til from both of them being little more than faunts, and had worked alongside him many a time since? But then, he supposed that Mr Bilbo had known and understood a lot more of life than he had; and anyway he might not have seen it even now if he hadn’t been so almighty aware of those who were in love, on account of the growing need for such a thing in himself. And if Mr Bilbo knew about them…
‘It’s a tricky problem,’ Bilbo pronounced, through a satisfying cloud of sweet-scented smoke (Sam had been correct - it was Old Toby), ‘and high time somebody took a hand, for the way they’re going it’ll be the same in ten years or thirty. I, for one, can’t wait that long to see them happy. They’re a pair of good lads, and fidelity should have its reward.’
As Mr Bilbo paused for a few contemplative pulls on his pipe, Sam wondered whether he might think the same of a gardener’s lad who had loved steadfastly for several years now, and sighed quietly into the confines of the picnic basket. Since he hadn’t been allowed to help one bit with the getting out of their lunch, he was making himself useful now, collecting up the (very few) leftovers and packing away emptied dishes and plates.
‘Now, it’s quite obvious that Til can’t leave the farm - it really is in his blood, and quite apart from how disappointed his parents would be, I don’t believe he would ever be truly happy without his connection to the land and to livestock. You have only to see him at work - he’s a stockhobbit through and through, and I don’t think he could give up that life, even for love. It is his life.
'He’ll have to adopt one of his sisters’ lads as heir, of course, but there’ll be plenty to choose from by the look of it. Shame about the name - there have been Oldacres at Netherfold farm since time out of mind - but,’ he looked at Frodo, serious now, ‘name or no, a chosen heir can sometimes turn out even better than one born.’
Frodo returned his gaze steadily, and Sam saw, shining clear, the love and allegiance between them. Truly, Mr Bilbo’s choice had been for the best, setting aside whatever it might mean for Sam Gamgee.
Bilbo cleared his throat then, and concentrated on his pipe for a minute or two before he resumed, ‘So, it’s from Rafe’s side that we must address the matter.’
We? Well, it wouldn't be betraying a confidence really, to report a simple fact, would it? ‘He can’t leave the Travelling, sir. I asked Til about it. That’s in his blood, Til says - it's all Rafe knows. He’s never been used to being in one place more than a month or two at a time at most, and it seems that that’s the way he must be. He follows the old paths, just as his family has always done.’
‘All we need, then,’ said Bilbo, as if it were as easy as asking the grocer to weigh out three pounds of flour and an ounce or two of peppercorns, ‘is something which will allow plenty of travel but will keep bringing Rafe Boswell-’ Sam was surprised again, for Mr Bilbo even knew his right name! ‘-back regularly to Hobbiton, and by the bye to Netherfold Farm.'
He took a slow and measured puff of his pipe, ostensibly considering the matter carefully, but knowing full well that both lads were hanging on his lightest word. 'You know, Sam, I was thinking only last market day when I caught sight of your Gaffer and old Bill Swire - sat there jabbering away twenty to the dozen like a pair of old gammers, they were - I was thinking that Bill was getting on rather, to be hiking and carting the length and breadth of the Shire the way he does.’
Sam hid his grin rather better than Frodo managed to stifle a snort. Mr Bilbo were coming up to his one hundred and tenth birthday, and he thought Bill Swire were getting on?
‘And,’ Bilbo went on, not without an almost-stern glance at Sam and a mock glare for Frodo, ‘it seemed to me that he ought to be on the lookout for a lad with a good head and heart and a strong back to take on the travelling - with him, for a start, and maybe in a year or ten, for him.’
'It sounds ideal,' Frodo said, 'but would Bill consider it? There are still many hobbits who don't really trust the Travellers, you know.'
'Oh, I think he might,' Bilbo said comfortably, 'if Rafe came on good recommendation. I've made quite a few enquiries since last year's Show, and I found no one with a bad word for him, but many a good. I think perhaps that later this afternoon would be an excellent time to have a quiet chat with Bill. Just put the proposition to him, you know. It may take a while for him to think his way around and through it, but I think we may expect a result before Yule.'
Sam smothered his protest, but Frodo said ‘Bilbo!’ at such a lengthy period of contemplation.
Bilbo said, a little touchily, 'Yes, yes, I know - you young folk think these things can be sorted in a day or two or a week at most. Well, it doesn't work like that, and this is the best that I can do!'
'We know, really!' Frodo said, with a great hug for his uncle. 'And you are the kindest, most thoughtful hobbit there ever has been in the whole of the Shire!'
Bilbo harrumph'd, but Sam could see how pleased he was by Frodo's outburst. Once freed, he cleared his throat again, more loudly this time, then tapped the dottle from his pipe (thankfully not dropped in the hugging) with a somewhat decisive air. ‘Now, it's rather fortunate that you should think that,’ he said, 'for I have a little something I’d like you to do for me, if you would. I’m sure it will be great fun, once you get underway.’
Frodo looked at Sam with a questioning brow.
Sam shrugged, discreetly. Hard by, on the bale next to the now re-packed lunch basket, lay the bundle left in the tent that morning by instruction - though why the Master would need those today, he couldn’t begin to guess. They might only be the patched and worn sheets he used to cover furniture and floors at Bag End when there were painting or white-washing to be done, but Sam knew there had to be far more to it than that.
As Bilbo opened them out, Sam noticed (for he’d not been able to resist having a good feel and then a peep at what had been so intriguing to his fingers as he carried it from the trap) that although there were still several towels, a pair of wooden spoons and more than a trace of rolled oats concealed within their folds, the large mixing bowl and the paper bag that had leaked from a tear in one corner were both missing.
‘Oh! Bilbo, no!’
It seemed that Frodo had realised suddenly what, even in its depleted state, this odd collection signified, and what was the nature of the promised ‘fun’. He was plainly not too keen on the idea, whatever it may be.
‘We’ll get stuck up to the skies!’
‘Well, yes, there is that, but think how much the little ones will enjoy it. You’ll be doing it for them!’ There was, though, a definite something in Mr Bilbo’s voice, Sam thought, that suggested the enjoyment might be as much his as anyone’s. ‘And it’s a nice warm day - you can sluice down afterwards and you’ll be dry in no time.’
‘But why?’
‘I simply thought that another small entertainment might be a nice idea. Not everyone wants to watch the stock being shown, and pockets are not bottomless for spending on Rides and sideshows, you know. It seemed a good idea to offer something completely free of charge and likely to be enjoyed by grownups and youngsters alike. In fact, I was so sure you would agree that I may have mentioned it to one or two people…’
Mr Bilbo’s words were all innocence, but Sam became immediately convinced that at least half the hobbits present on the Showground had been invited to attend whatever this promised treat may prove to be.
‘I should hate to disappoint the poor little mites, for this would amuse them greatly, if only for a while,’ he finished, with a sad shake of his head at the thought of what they would miss should Frodo refuse; but Sam caught the hint of a hidden smile and remembered Frodo having once confided that guilt was one of Bilbo’s most effective weapons against him.
‘Bilbo, you do remember why this is so unpopular with the matrons of Buckland?’
‘Yes, yes, but just think how much you enjoyed watching it when you were small. And,’ he added with a sly wink, ‘we don’t have to have breakfast in the same smial as the matrons afterwards! Don’t be such a wet blanket, Frodo! I’m sure Sam will agree to take part.’
He turned expectantly to Sam who, though as yet unsure of the details, knew already that whatever it was would happen, no matter what Frodo said. When the Master looked like that, few could stand against him.
‘What must I do, Mr Bilbo?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Nothing to it, Sam. You just feed each other porridge.’ Bilbo waved his hands airily. ‘As easy as that.’
Sam knew perfectly well from the look of disbelief on Frodo’s face that Mr Bilbo was not telling all, and awaited enlightenment.
‘Wearing blindfolds,’ said Frodo, tersely.
‘In fact,’ Bilbo swept in, possibly to divert any demur Sam might be about to voice, ‘I’ve thought of a nice little refinement they didn’t have at Brandy Hall - not the last that I saw of it, at any rate. Since porridge doesn’t show up very well on white - well, mostly white - sheets, when I called at the herbalist’s this morning for a pot of her finest salve, I got Mistress Earthy to mix up a tasty colouring for me.’ He fished a small bottle from his waistcoat pocket. Whatever it contained was quite the most lurid green that Sam had ever seen. Bilbo looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Of course, it won’t be quite so vivid once it’s mixed in. In fact…’
Sam realised the import of what Mr Bilbo had left unsaid, some time later, as he and Frodo sat facing each other over an upturned barrel. They were high on a flat-bed wagon that Bilbo had conjured up from somewhere, its floor also covered in the sheeting against the inevitable mess should a spoonful or two of the porridge go astray. Although the venue was of necessity a little way behind the busier areas of the Showground, Sam’s assessment of just how many folk had been advised of the event had not been so very far wrong. There seemed to be scores of youngsters, sitting cross-legged and watching the preparations with interest, their small faces clearly anticipating a great treat. Behind them sat or perched or stood as many or more grown hobbits; Sam wondered that they should be quite so nostalgic over what was to be a performance for the gratification of the small ones here, but resolved to do his best not to let his master down.
Frodo’s eyes were already bound; his hair, shining with darkly coppered highlights, and his mouth and chin were all that could be seen of him, the rest (wearing only work trousers, in order to spare shirt and cleaner clothes) was generously swathed, as were Sam and the barrel, in much-mended dust sheets. Between them on their makeshift table lay the large bowl, now holding a thick, cold porridge tinted to a pale and sickly hue. It made Sam rather glad that he would be wearing the blindfold Mr Bilbo was wrapping tightly about his head, when he had to eat it.
‘Now, listen to me, Sam - you’re not to hold back,’ Bilbo advised in a low tone, was laced with amusement. ‘You must forget that it’s Frodo and pretend he’s one of your brothers. Really let him have it!’
Whatever does he mean by that? He’d not want me to choke Mr Frodo, surely?
But Sam had no more time to wonder, for Bilbo was announcing in a loud voice, which to Sam’s ear contained a good deal of suppressed amusement already, ‘And now, lads and lasses young and old, for your delectation and delight, may I present - A Blindfold Breakfast!’
The hum of childish voices quieted for a second, and then rose appreciatively as Sam groped outward with his spoon to where he thought the bowl should be. He was concentrating so hard on filling it suitably that it came as quite a surprise when something which must also be a wooden spoon was thrust suddenly into his face, dripping cool and messy down his chin. He opened his mouth, took in as much as he could and swallowed; it didn’t taste too bad - well-sweetened, at any rate - despite the fact that it had looked positively repulsive. A chorus of ‘Eeewww!’ and a storm of giggles erupted from below.
Once he had the measure of where to find the stuff, he considered his first few spoonfuls to be well on target. He was pretty sure that several had landed in (or at the least very near to) Frodo’s mouth, and he had dutifully opened his own to receive more offerings. But whilst his attempts continued, he thought, to collide with Frodo within the correct area at least, he soon became convinced that Frodo could not be applying the same amount of care. What had just landed on the top of his head, for example, surely had to be the result of deliberate intent rather than accident? That small but distinct ‘Splat!’ (to an ecstatic reception from the youngsters) definitely indicated something falling from a deliberate height.
‘Mr Frodo!’ he whispered across their table. ‘That’s not exactly fair! How is that feeding me?’
‘Who said we were playing fair?’ Frodo whispered back, depositing another large dollop to slide stickily down the side of Sam’s face, not all of it diverted by his blindfold. And somehow, at that exact moment, the half-knot which was supposed to hold the sheet close in to Sam’s neck came loose, and a generous amount of cold porridge insinuated itself within, sliding stealthily down onto his bare chest. The lads and lasses might think it great fun to watch - judging by the racket they were making - but Sam decided now that the unfair distribution of this slickly sticky ooze had become more a matter for retaliation than enjoyment.
‘We aren’t playing fair?’ He needed to get this straight, no misunderstanding at all, now that he realised the permission Mr Bilbo had given him.
‘Never!’ accompanied a spoonful to Sam’s left shoulder.
‘If you say so, sir!’ Battle had been declared, Mr Bilbo had already sanctioned his actions, and Sam intended to use all the weapons at his disposal.
He stood up stealthily, face toward the crowd, and tapped a warning finger against his lips. There were many sharply indrawn ‘Oh!’s and not a few delighted shouts, muffled behind small hands, as the throng waited to see what Sam had in mind. He surveyed his quarry, for in truth he now had the very unfair advantage of being able to see under the bottom edge of his blindfold. Picking up the bowl, he tucked it under his arm and had to quell a distinct chortle at the sight of Frodo, still digging away with his spoon on the barrel where the porridge ought still to have been. Giggles erupted on every side, but Sam just grinned and refused to feel any guilt.
Careful not to fall over his sheeting, he advanced stealthily around the makeshift table, dabbing Frodo with porridge left, right and centre, the while. Once at his side, Sam dropped a laden spoonful to slide down Frodo’s front, took the dish in both hands and inverted it over his head, settling it carefully to resemble an oversized hat with a glutinously mobile veil. The noise from the crowd was almost deafening, now, and quite drowned out Frodo’s shocked (and rather muffled) cry of ‘Samwise Gamgee!’
Sam freed his eyes, and swept a bow to his deeply appreciative audience, some of whom were rolling around on the ground in convulsions of mirth; many, adults included, appeared to be weeping with merriment.
The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the wagon bed, with an outraged and glaring Frodo sitting athwart him, bowl and blindfold gone and sheet askew round his neck and body. Sam had only seconds to appreciate their relative positions before his face was spattered with drips from Frodo’s impressively porridge-laden hair, as Frodo caught his hands and forced them down by his head, to a massive cheer from the onlookers.
'Evens?' Frodo demanded - and then for a second it seemed that he forgot where he was, for one hand came down, and his thumb felt almost like a caress as he gently wiped away the viscous green slime that was about to trickle into Sam’s left eye.
‘Evens!’ Sam called loudly, wanting the touch to go on for ever but only too aware of their surroundings; and Frodo blinked, and leapt up, pulling Sam with him, so they could both raise victorious arms and bow repeatedly to the laughing, cheering crowd. Calls for an encore were decisively ignored, and they stepped down from the wagon.
‘Well done, lads, well done!’ Bilbo ushered them around to where ewers of hot water stood on the wagon back, along with basins of cool, awaiting their preference. ‘Frodo-’ He was perfectly composed when he began to speak, but the slow slither of porridge, in fat and disgustingly-coloured globules, was too much for him once more, and his words dissolved into laughter.
Frodo attempted to squeeze the worst of the mess from his hair, all the while threatening his uncle with the most terrible retribution when he had time to think up something sufficiently awful.
Sam simply stood stock-still, only too conscious at last of what he had just done.
Frodo’s beautiful hair - darkness itself spun out into tumbled silken curls, whose destiny was to be bronzed by the sun or frosted cool under moonlight (not that Sam had ever given the matter much thought) - and what had he done to it? He’d only gone and turned it into these ropes of palely viscous green now dripping their sickly burden over Frodo’s shoulders. Sam was so mortified that he couldn’t properly appreciate the smooth skin of honeyed cream beneath the trails of vile mucus; and he had no idea where he could even begin to apologise.
When Frodo gave up his harangue at Bilbo’s iniquities and turned to him, Sam was ready to stumble from explanation through apology into complete self-abasement - until Frodo’s words cut through his haze of blame.
‘That was simply and utterly brilliant, Sam - you are a genius to think of it!’ He was smiling through the thickly clinging mix of hair and oatmeal, and Sam could scarcely believe it. ‘I’m sure that was never so exciting - or so funny - when I was a lad! Oh, I wish I could have seen it! And I should love to be present at a few breakfast tables where porridge is served in the near future to any little lad or lass who watched you today!’
‘But, Mr Frodo, I should never have-’
‘Oh, but Samwise, you really should - it was most wonderful! Though I think I should like to be rid of it now. It’s amazingly chilling stuff, porridge, when it’s trickling down you.’ He appraised Sam’s own condition. ‘Well, I may not have been quite so inspired, but I did manage to get just a little of my own back. Beforehand, as it were!’
Sam‘s thinner and more random layer of porridge was beginning to feel quite unpleasant - almost as though it were setting on his skin - and Frodo was quite right about its temperature. Despite the sun, Sam shivered.
‘You wash it out of my hair, Sam, and I’ll do yours?’
The suggestion sent a shiver of a completely different kind through Sam, but he quelled it quickly and managed a nod. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Bilbo, sir, but I think Mr Frodo’s going to need more than them few jugfuls to get all that lot out.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with the bowser? Just stick your head under the tap, Frodo, and let Sam swish your hair around - that should do it.’
Frodo folded his arms as he glared at his uncle, somehow managing to look fierce even wearing a ridiculous coat of green slime. ‘There’s exactly one thing wrong with that, Bilbo. The water will be freezing!’
‘Not freezing, Frodo, not on a day like today,’ Bilbo said, in an annoyingly reasonable tone. ‘Just a little cool, that’s all. And there’s plenty of warm there, for a proper wash, after the worst has gone. Get on with you!’
There being no point in arguing with Mr Bilbo once his mind was made up, Sam led the way to the nearby bowser. The ground beneath the tap was already saturated, of course, and becoming quite muddy. Frodo rolled up his trouser-legs and knelt carefully to one side, still grumbling imprecations. Sam took up his position at the other, more than a little overwhelmed by the sight of Frodo, half-naked and kneeling at his feet, despite the fact that any remotely similar fantasy he may have had, definitely had not taken place in broad daylight, with folk milling about just the other side of a wagon. Nor, of course, had Frodo been burdened by anything quite so unpleasant upon his hair and skin (nor even by trousers, though he might have shown a slight sheen of oil).
There were, however, parts of Sam which refused to notice these minor differences, and which proceeded to react in their usual fashion. He ignored them as best he might - he’d had the practice, after all - and turned on the bowser’s tap, as Frodo bent low enough for the water to run through his hair.
‘Aaah! Ohhh! Goodness, that’s cold!’ Frodo said, his voice muffled and liquid. ‘Be quick, Sam - please!’
Sam positioned himself closer, refusing further tempting parallels within his mind in view of Frodo’s distress. He realised at once that he was quite right about the temperature - Mr Bilbo had definitely been over-optimistic as to the heating powers of Wedmath warmth on so large a volume of water. Sam knew because it was dissolving lumps of porridge straight from Frodo’s head to splash across his own feet. He plunged his fingers into the sticky curl-and-oatmeal pudding and worked them gently but swiftly to and fro. Alternately squeezing and stroking, he dragged the sludge carefully towards the end of each strand and flicked it off, spreading every lock into a stream of clear water.
At first Frodo muttered abuse of his uncle - half-formed and hurried threats of revenge voiced through gritted teeth - though these soon faded and he seemed to be shivering indeed. Sam thought he could feel the tension rise into his own fingers and he tried to massage the warmth of his love into Frodo's scalp. But as the mess thinned and was swept away, his concentration was stolen entirely by what flowed now beneath his hands.
For here was the longed for night-dark silk; sheen newly glossed, it spilled its softly sinuous curtain to waver through the clear cold stream, swaying seductively about Sam’s wrists, swirling through his fingers in a dizzying drift of dusky caresses...
Sam swallowed, hard. But his trial was to get worse.
Without warning, Frodo began to comb his fingers through Sam’s foothair, where dribbles and streaks of porridge had dripped and lingered still - and Sam’s control was almost breached.
He’d had no idea that a simple touch to his feet could possibly affect him in so intimate a way - this new and frisky tingle that that had started so unexpectedly as a sly skitter from toes to ankle and streaked up - Oh! There, yes! - to meet the arousal already risen so keenly.
‘No!’ he said, taking a quick step backwards. It sounded rather more forceful than he really meant it to, but he knew himself to be perilously close to the limit of the delights he could withstand before the inevitable occurred.
Frodo peered up at him, all hurt blue sparkle through the soft wash of black, and Sam rushed to say, ‘Can't have you catching cold, sir. You should get Mr Bilbo to pour some warm water over you, and then get dried, sir. I can do my feet and whatnot.’
‘But your hair too, Sam!’ Frodo protested, though he looked to be shivering in earnest as he rose carefully from amidst the muddy and now quite porridgy mire, to give knees and feet a quick swill under the tap before stepping away. He was squeezing excess water from his hair, and it was not only Sam’s fingers that twitched to the remembered texture.
‘I’ll manage, sir - I’ve nowhere near as much on me as you have, and it’s not all…’ He gestured weakly at the runnels of watered porridge left on Frodo’s torso - discoloured smears marring perfection (noting, though he tried hard not to, that distinct traces of oat remained, caught invitingly on each darkly peaked nipple…)
Hang propriety! part of him insisted. Get over there and lick it off!
‘Quite right, Sam, so he should! I’ll see to Frodo, now - you get yourself cleaned up.’ Bilbo appeared as though he had heard his name - or Sam’s wayward thoughts. He took his nephew by the elbow and led him away. ‘Don’t forget there’s plenty of warm water for you too, when you’re done here,’ he called over his shoulder.
Sam took a steadying breath and turned back to the bowser, forcing himself to kneel - most prudently - by the tap. He swished his hair a few times through the chilling stream, and by the time that he had washed feet and knees, and sluiced away the worst of what had run down his neck, cold water had given him back his composure. He was able to take up Mr Bilbo’s offer of warm with scarcely a tremor.
~~~
Chapter 15: Show Day the Second - Afternoon.
Chapter 13 was here and the story began with The Prologue
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This is my Christmas offering to my flist - I don't deserve you since I scarcely do lj at all, but I hope that you enjoy what I post. I wanted you to have this chapter today because it was the one which was most fun to write - as a reader you may not agree, but that's life! (In case you're wondering, a lovescene comes in a category all its own. As it were.)
I wish for you all the good things you would wish for yourselves, and that you have as happy and peaceful a day as is possible. However you conceive of him/her/it:
May your God go with you