The Singer and The Song
Sam/Frodo
Sam paused before he entered the warm kitchen, wiping his feet on the bit of rag they kept there for just such a purpose; it did nobody any good to have to keep washing the kitchen floor when there was a fine and sensible alternative.
Frodo wasn’t there, which was unusual at this time of day – a quick glance at the position of the sun told Sam that it was time for second breakfast – maybe even a bit past the time. Frodo was always in the kitchen in time for second breakfast, even when Sam had kept him awake half the night with loving, and then woken him again before starting the day’s chores.
"Frodo?" he said, peering around again, as if expecting Frodo to materialise suddenly in front of him, or peek around the door to the pantry. Nothing. Sam shivered, not liking the silence; his Frodo carried silence around him like a cloak, but it was a good silence, a thinking silence, not the silence of emptiness. "Frodo?"
He stepped into the kitchen, shivering slightly as the autumn wind blew cold around his ankles, and closed the door tightly, locking in the warmth, then he went to look for Frodo.
He was in his study, the first place Sam looked, eyes fixed on the intricate text of a book that was unfamiliar to Sam.
"Where did you get that?" he asked, but Frodo didn’t stir, his eyes fixed on the page in front of him. Sam leaned his head against the door frame and watched Frodo, a smile beginning to form on his face.
After a good ten minutes, Frodo blinked and sighed, and looked up, jumping when he saw Sam.
"Goodness! How long have you been standing there? Was I ignoring you?"
"No, me dear, never that." Sam pushed himself away from the door frame and entered the study, dropping a soft kiss on Frodo’s dark curls. "I enjoy watching you when you lose yourself like that."
Frodo smiled ruefully. "I was only going to have a quick glance before starting on second breakfast, but there’s a passage here that I don’t recall seeing anywhere else, and I just wanted to make sure I understood … He tailed off and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Sam! I forgot breakfast. You must be starving! I’m sorry!" He stood up and made to leave the room, yelping slightly as Sam caught his shirt tail and stopped him in his tracks. He began to smile as Sam pulled him close, the smile turning positively feral as he moved still closer, standing between Sam’s spread thighs.
"Would you like me to make it up to you?" he asked, his fingers tangling in the material of Sam’s shirt. "I’m sure I could think of something to take your mind off your … hunger."
Sam groaned, already lost in Frodo’s eyes, his hands resting on Frodo’s hips.
"I kept you up half the night…" he began, stopping when Frodo laughed.
"I kept you up, too." Frodo leaned forward, revelling in Sam’s warmth. "I seem to remember you being up quite a lot." He tilted his head, offering his mouth to Sam, who, as was always the case, accepted the invitation, dipping his head and kissing Frodo as if he were dying of thirst and Frodo was a cool stream of water.
"Are you hungry?" Frodo asked finally, and Sam shrugged his shoulders, his fingers untucking Frodo’s shirt so that he could rest his hands on smooth, cool flesh.
"Not so much," he said. "I wouldn’t say no to a rasher or two of bacon, and maybe an egg, but nothing fancy."
"Come along, then." Frodo, with obvious reluctance, stepped out of the shelter of Sam’s arms and legs. "Let me wait on you."
"You don’t have to…" Sam’s fingers tangled with Frodo’s as they made their way to the kitchen.
"I do," Frodo replied. "You’ve been outside in the fresh air all morning and I’ve been trapped in the study. I could do with a little moving around, a little … exercise." He smiled over his shoulder at Sam, who felt it in every part of his body.
In the kitchen, Sam, once he had washed his hands, sat obediently at the table, admiring the view as Frodo bustled around. He hadn’t tucked his shirt in, and Sam liked the way it billowed and moved, just hinting at what was underneath. He wanted to say it, wanted to explain it – I love you. I love the way you look when you’re just awake and the shadows of dreams are still in your eyes. I love the way that you move around the kitchen looking as if you’re going to burn something at any second. I love you – but he couldn’t say the words. He had tried, but he just fell over them and ended up looking at his feet until Frodo grabbed him and kissed him, and then it didn’t matter.
I can show you how I feel. I can hold you and kiss you and love you. Do you know how I feel? I think you do. I hope you do.
Frodo chose that moment to look up at Sam and smile, shaking his head to get the curls out of his eyes, and the simple gesture made Sam’s heart soar.
"Tell me about the text," he said as Frodo set the food down on the table and checked over his shoulder to ensure he hadn’t left anything too near an open flame. "What did you find?"
"A song," Frodo answered, sitting opposite him. Sam gasped and laughed as cold feet rested on his shins.
"What?" Frodo asked, the picture of innocence. "My feet are cold."
"What song?" Sam asked, not admitting how much he liked the feel of cold skin against his own. The simple trust in the gesture made him smile inside.
"A ballad …" Frodo shook his head. "I can’t quite understand it, I think it must be in some kind of dialect. Frustrating, of course, but I’ll get it."
"Of course you will," Sam agreed. "You always do." There was a pause while they ate their food, Sam raising an eyebrow at Frodo, and then nodding his approval.
"I can cook, Sam," Frodo said, a little exasperated. "I’m not completely useless."
"I never said you were. I just think you can be a little … dangerous sometimes."
"Dangerous?" Frodo’s eyes opened wide in feigned hurt. "Why?"
"Because if there’s a choice between reading a book and keeping an eye on the cooking, we know which one you’d choose." Sam smiled, and waited for the hurt look on Frodo’s face to vanish, which it did in short order.
The way you suddenly stop whatever you’re doing because a bit of translation has finally come clear to you. The way you stand in the garden on cold nights and watch the stars. The way you come to me afterwards and ask me without speaking to make you warm again.
"Sam?"
"Nothing. Just thinking about the market. We’re running low on so many things now. We need to stock up before winter."
"Yes, you’re right." Frodo finished his breakfast, and sighed in contentment. "We’ll write a list if you like. Do you have much to do outside?"
"Nothing here, but I need to be down the lane for a while this afternoon. I’ll be back before it’s dark."
"Then I’ll make the list and you can add whatever I’ve forgotten." Frodo stood up and gathered their plates together. "I’ll make the tea, shall I?"
"That would be nice," Sam agreed, and sat back to watch Frodo again.
The way that you laugh, full-throated and loud. The passion you bring to your books, to your life, to our bed. The wild Brandybuck side you think you keep well hidden. The way you drink too much and then laugh too much and then swear to never do it again.
"We’ve had a letter from Merry asking us to visit him at Brandy Hall," Frodo said as he set down two steaming mugs of tea. "Do you want to go?"
"If that’s what you want. It would be nice for you to see Mr Merry."
The fact you ask me if I want to go with you. You use words like ‘us’ and ‘we’, never caring if others look at you in askance. I don’t have the words…
"Sing me the song," Sam said. "The ballad. How does it go?"
"What?" Frodo cleared his throat, slightly startled. "Er… I don’t have a tune for it."
"Make a tune in your head." Sam leaned forward. "Sing it to me.."
Frodo smiled, and cleared his throat again.
‘Oh row my lady in satin and silk
and bathe my son in the morning milk…’
He broke off, shaking his head, smiling ruefully. "Sam, I’m not the singer, you are."
Sam looked at him and smiled into his eyes.
"Maybe," he said. "But you’re the song."
The End
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