The title of the fic comes from The Peace of Wild Things, which you probably know even if you think you don’t. It’s beautiful.

When despair grows in me

and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting for their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

The Peace of Still Waters

Sam/Frodo

No offence intended or money made.

Frodo glanced up from his work and sighed. It was still raining, the air damp, the fire sputtering in the hearth, sending out more smoke than heat. The muffled drumming of the downpour had been background noise for almost a week and Frodo was, quite frankly, sick of it.

He coughed suddenly, a sharp pain extending down his side and he sighed again. He had always been healthy - before. Now his body let him down too often with colds and fevers that once would have been held at bay.

"Frodo?" Sam’s voice was soft, but not concerned. "Do you need anything?"

"I need this dratted rain to stop and the sun to shine," snapped Frodo, and then looked up at Sam in silent apology for his short temper.

Sam ignored the look and moved to stand behind Frodo, his strong fingers digging into tense muscles, making Frodo groan and dip his head.

"I’ve set a fire in the parlour and that seems to be drawing better than this," he said after a moment. "Can you not leave your writing for a little while? Come sit with me."

"I should try and finish it," Frodo answered, gesturing to the open book in front of him. "Our story needs to be told." The warm familiarity of Sam’s body was making him suddenly yearn to be curled up with him on one of the long settles, but he did his best to fight it.

"You can’t finish it." Sam leaned down to rest his lips in Frodo’s hair, at the same time reaching out and gently removing the pen from his unresisting, ink-stained fingers. "Our story’s not done yet."

Frodo leaned back and rested his head against Sam’s belly, closing his eyes.

"Mulled ale," Sam whispered, and Frodo laughed quietly, his hands closing over Sam’s where they wrapped around his shoulders. "Please Frodo my love. The writing will wait. The ale won’t."

Frodo glanced once more out of the window at the cold and cheerless day, and nodded, standing up.

Sam stood back, and then moved forward again, wrapping Frodo in his arms and kissing him softly. Frodo grunted his approval and wrapped his hands in the warm cotton of Sam’s shirt.

"What was that for?" he asked when he was released. "Not that I’m complaining you understand."

"Am I not allowed to kiss you when I want?" Sam smiled at Frodo, fingers trailing through dark curls. "Your hair’s getting long again. Growing thick, too."

"Shall we cut it, do you think?" Frodo smiled slightly. Sam loved his hair, loved to touch it and stroke it. He knew what the answer to his question would be.

"No." Sam put his face against it and breathed deeply. "I love the smell of your hair, did you know that? It smells of apples and barley and of good growing things."

"That’s probably because the last time the sun was shining you insisted on me becoming very … acquainted … with the ‘good growing earth’ as you like to call it. I seem to remember I was picking bits of grass out of my hair for a long time after that." Frodo smiled and leaned into Sam’s embrace, tilting his head invitingly, until Sam obeyed and another kiss was shared, only ending when Frodo coughed slightly.

"Too much smoke in here," Sam muttered, his arm around Frodo’s shoulders. "Come into the parlour now."

Frodo could feel that Sam was practically vibrating with the need to say more; to ply him with herbs and medicine until he was good and whole again. Frodo slipped his arm around Sam’s waist and smiled. Sam made him whole. One day, perhaps, that would be understood.

"Oh!" Frodo flopped down on the settle and sighed in relief. "It’s lovely and warm in here, Sam." He reached out a hand and took the mug of mulled ale Sam was holding out, and then looked expectantly until Sam sat down beside him. He shifted back into the corner and held out one arm, urging Sam to settle against him, which he did with the tiniest show of reluctance. Frodo hid a smile in Sam’s hair.

"You don’t always have to be looking after me," he said. "I’m not going to break." He pulled Sam close and took a tentative sip of ale, blowing on it first. "Mmm, this is wonderful." He rested his head against the back of the settle, sighing out his contentment.

"What will you say about this part of our tale?" Sam asked, after taking a sip of his own brew. "What is there to write about?"

"That’s easy," Frodo answered. "This is the best part. The part where Sam and Frodo live out their mundane lives together."

"Mundane?" Sam tilted his head so that Frodo could gaze down into soft hazel eyes. "Is that what we are?"

"We give the impression of it," Frodo amended, taking another sip of his ale, revelling in the warmth spreading into the tip of every finger and toe. "Sam and Frodo and their mundane lives. And then, when the door is closed and we’re away from prying eyes, then … things change."

"That’s all right then," Sam said, lowering his head to Frodo’s shoulder, heavy and relaxed. "I wouldn’t want you to think I was mundane."

"Never." Frodo laughed and rested his cheek against Sam’s hair, and they sat quietly together for a long time, listening to the rain and watching the grey light turn deeper as the afternoon began to fade toward evening.

"Will it ever stop raining do you think?" Frodo asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Soon," Sam said softly, his voice-half asleep. His head had dipped lower during the afternoon until it was resting in Frodo’s lap, and Frodo had been able to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes, twisting fair curls around his fingers until Sam was sighing quietly with pleasure.

"How do you know?" Frodo asked, taking Sam’s empty mug from a lax hand and putting it, along with his own, on the table next to the settle.

"I can feel it." Sam didn’t elaborate, and Frodo didn’t ask. Sam was right about the weather more often than he was wrong. "And we need it, Frodo, you know that. We've seen what a country without water is like."

"I know." Frodo's hand left Sam's hair and moved down his neck to his shoulder, stroking softly. "I wouldn't be without the rain, not really. It makes the Shire what it is."

Sam shifted until he was lying on his back, and reached up to grasp Frodo's fingers, tangling his own with them. Frodo raised them to his mouth and feathered a kiss on the back of Sam’s broad hand.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?" Sam moved his index finger until he could stroke Frodo's cheek. "What is it, me dear?"

"Take me to bed."

Sam sat up, blinking slightly at the wave of dizziness it caused. "Are you ill? What's wrong?"

"No, no." Frodo laughed. "I want you to take me to bed." He grasped Sam's hand again. "I want to feel your hands on me." He glanced towards the window. "It's dark and gloomy, and we're falling asleep here. Let's put our idleness to some use. Let's lock up for the day and go to bed."

Sam looked momentarily horrified, and Frodo laughed again. "Don't get that look about you, Samwise! Nobody will come visiting, we won't have to leap from the bed in a state of undress to answer the door." He lowered his head and gazed up at Sam, knowing full well the effect that particular look had. "Don't you want me?"

"All the time," Sam said, pulling Frodo into his arms, running his fingers through tangled curls. He lowered his head to Frodo's, kissing him softly, letting one hand slide down Frodo's back, pulling him closer. "You bank the fire in here," he said, finally releasing a now-breathless Frodo, "and I'll make sure that we're locked in snug and safe."

Frodo nodded, and slid off the settle, going to the fire. Once safely banked, he moved to the window, putting his hands on the shutters, intending to close them against the chill afternoon. His gaze was caught by the stream of water slowly running down the lane - it had started to flood on the second day, and now looked more like a stream than a lane.

"Frodo?" Frodo started as Sam's arms surrounded him, enfolding him in warmth, and he leaned back gratefully.

"It's the rain," he said. "It brings out my melancholy side."

"And you do have one," Sam said dryly. He kissed Frodo's neck. "Now, come to bed."

Frodo closed the shutters and they walked down the corridor to their bedchamber, fingers loosely tangled.

*

"Perfect peace," Frodo said lazily, tucked against Sam's side, his fingers trailing down Sam's chest as far as his belly and then back up again, his leg, resting proprietarily over Sam's. "That's what you bring me."

Sam, his breathing still slightly ragged, wrapped his arms around Frodo's and pulled. Frodo laughed, resisting, until Sam, with a muttered, "so be it," rolled over, pinning Frodo to the mattress, making him groan in renewed pleasure.

"Not so melancholy now?" Sam asked, his lips pressed against the thrumming pulse in Frodo's neck.

"Not so," Frodo agreed, burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire crackling so brightly, or even with Sam looming over him, moving with and against him, but to do with Sam in an entirely different way; the way Sam made him feel with just a look or a touch; the way that, although it had never been spoken in so many words, he was the reason Frodo had fought so hard for so long.

"Aren’t you worn out?" he asked, splaying his fingers wide over Sam’s broad chest, rubbing his thumbs across dark nipples, and then sliding his hands around to rest against Sam’s back. "You just performed magnificently; it would be expecting too much of to manage such a feat again so soon." He smiled mischievously. "Wouldn’t it?"

"It does my heart so much good to see you like this," Sam said. "I…" he ducked his head and seemed reluctant to go on until his head was forced up by Frodo’s fingers beneath his chin.

"Yes?"

"You seem so far away from me sometimes," Sam blurted, and slid off Frodo to lie by his side.

Frodo rolled onto his side so that they were practically touching noses, and he smiled a little sadly.

"I remember things sometimes," he admitted quietly. "I don’t think I can ever go back to being who I was before, but then I don’t think you can either." He paused. "The old Frodo, the Frodo from before; I think he died." He raised his ruined hand and put it over Sam’s mouth before a protest could be voiced. "But I think Samwise died as well; they died together." He placed a gentle kiss on Sam’s cheek. "Not a bad thing, to die together. I think it’s what they would have wanted."

"Frodo…"

"No, listen to me, please." Frodo rested his head against Sam’s chest and listened to the slow, steady beating of his heart.

"We both came back different, and sometimes I remember things that I would much rather forget. But Sam, you’re here. The one thing that nothing can take away is that you’re here." He turned his head and kissed the flesh over Sam’s heart before settling back. "We’re different, changed, but we’re here." He paused and blinked against the sudden sting of remembered tears. "Darker and older, perhaps, but still …" He raised his head again, wanting to make sure Sam understood. "We can still hold each other, and love each other. The sun still shines, and the rain falls …" He glanced over at the window, and Sam snorted an involuntary laugh.

"And do you ever think of it?" he asked, and Frodo looked back, his eyes dark. "Do you ever think of that thing and what it did?"

"For a little while when we destroyed it," Frodo admitted frankly. "But now? No. I was empty when we came back, at least for a little while. But now I have you to fill the empty space inside me." He sat up and pulled Sam up as well until they were facing each other, legs tangled. "What need have I for anything else?"

"And you will never leave?" Sam’s voice sounded high and desperate, and he tried to control it. "Frodo, I couldn’t bear it…"

"I will never leave," Frodo promised solemnly, before his face split into a huge grin. "Or at least, not without you." He kissed the tip of Sam’s nose. "So, if you’re not too exhausted, I think we should wish the old Sam and Frodo well."

"I think you’re right," Sam said thoughtfully. "If Sam was going to die, he would want to die with Frodo. Couldn’t live without him."

"And Frodo would be the same," Frodo whispered. "He does loves his Sam so very much."

"They’ll always be together," Sam said, his voice quiet.

"Even when they’re old and grey, even when they are older than Bilbo." Frodo touched Sam’s arm softly, almost reverentially. "I promise you."

"Then that’s what matters." And Sam pulled Frodo to him and kissed him, before laying him down and loving him, revelling in the cries and gasps that were more nourishing to him than any food or ale ever could be.

Somewhere, as the long afternoon faded to night, and the night almost back to day, they said their farewells at last to what had been, and turned their faces toward what was to come, toward the happiness that they had earned. And if one of them shed a few tears, the other wiped them softly away, and kissed the tracks of them dry.

*

"Listen. The rain's stopped."

They lay listening to the steady dripping of water from the trees surrounding Bag End, the distant gurgle of the water in the lane.

"At last." Frodo pulled the blankets more closely around them, burrowing into Sam, demanding silently to be held.

"Sometimes you’re like a young ‘un, did you know that?" Sam mock-grumbled, pulling Frodo close. "I’ve never known somebody want to be held so much."

"Are you complaining?" Frodo asked, his breath warm against Sam’s neck.

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They lay together, warm and safe, and listened as the dripping slowly stopped and the silence descended, wrapping them close in their bed.

Still they talked, neither of them willing to give up this night of magic, when farewells were made and welcomes given. They lay close, touching constantly, kissing sometimes, both of them comfortable and content to be where they were.

"Why do you hate the rain?" Sam asked at one point, his hands full of Frodo’s hair, his eyes full of Frodo’s light.

"I don’t hate the rain," Frodo replied, his own eyes closing briefly in pleasure. "I’m just dispirited by it."

"You love water," Sam continued. "I’ve seen you by the lake, when you think nobody’s watching you."

"What do you mean? What do I do?" Frodo’s brows quirked slightly and Sam moved to kiss the frown away.

"You look at it. You talk to it." Sam smiled fondly, running a sturdy finger down the fair skin of Frodo’s neck. "Mad Baggins."

"I’m not talking to it," Frodo said, and for a second Sam didn’t know if the annoyance and hurt he saw was genuine or not, but then it faded into a smile like the sun, and he relaxed. "I’m talking to myself. Which is so much less mad."

"Because?" Sam lowered his head and kissed Frodo’s shoulder, and Frodo laughed.

"Because you can’t hold a decent conversation with water."

He laughed again and wrapped himself, arms and legs around Sam. "Still water is peace. It’s a thing I do when I have to think about things. The water is comfort."

"You can always talk to me about anything," Sam said. "What things do you think about?"

"About you," Frodo replied so promptly that Sam knew it for truth. "And about tithes and rents and land disputes…" he trailed off and pulled an eloquent face and Sam kissed him and then put his tongue to the hollow of his throat, which always made Frodo arch and beg, and tithes and still water were forgotten.

As the sky took on the grey tinge of dawn, Frodo’s belly rumbled, and they both laughed.

"I’ll go and find us some vittles," Sam said. "Stay here." He kissed Frodo who smiled and curled up as he was left alone in the bed. Sam glanced back at him from the door, and his heart just about jumped out of his chest from pure love.

He was as quick as he could be, gathering bread and cheese together, drawing a jug of cool water from the pump, and then padded down the hall back to their bedroom.

Frodo was asleep, still curled up, and Sam couldn’t help smiling. He put down the tray as quietly as he could, and slipped into bed, gathering the warm body to him. Frodo curled around him muttering something inaudible, but didn’t wake, and Sam, his heart still so full, didn’t wake him.

*

A few hours later the sun shone down from a watery blue sky, a gentle breeze chasing away the last of the rain clouds, and deep inside Bag End, Sam and Frodo slept, safe and quiet.

The End

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