Work Text:
“Alright, Mister Frodo, I believe that about finishes it.”
A stout man with sandy-blonde hair offered a nod of contentment as he wiped the dirt from his hands onto the front of his overalls. His knuckles were as pink as his nose and his breath billowed out in frosty clouds around his words. Despite the biting cold he smiled, like he always smiled, with wide eyes filled with awe and wonder at the very existence of life and the world.
He was a fool, Frodo thought, for always clinging onto such optimism. But he was, admittedly, an excellent gardener, so it would be even more foolish to offend him by deflating his peppy demeanor. It would be difficult – no, impossible – to find another with as much care and skill as Samwise Gamgee.
“Thank you, Sam. The poinsettias look wonderful.” Frodo tugged a gloved hand from the warmth of his coat pocket and extended a $50 bill to him, smiling politely. “Here, take this. Go and get something special for the missus, eh?”
Sam sighed gratefully as he accepted the cash, tucking it into the front pocket of his overalls and patting it for safekeeping. “Oh, Rosie’ll definitely appreciate it, sir.” He raised a hand as if he were about to wave goodbye, but a flash of realization crossed his face and he exclaimed, “Ah, I almost forgot! I have something for you as well.”
“Oh?” Frodo asked, leaning forward a little to peer around the door jamb.
Sam turned on his heels and hurried down the steps to his tool bag that still sat in front of the freshly-planted flowers. When he returned he held a small box gift-wrapped and tied with a ribbon in his hands, leaving a few smudges of dirt on its pristine surface as he passed it off to Frodo. “I thought maybe you could hang this up somewhere for the lucky lass who spends Christmas Eve with you tonight. Cut it fresh off a tree on my way home last night!”
Frodo carefully unwrapped it, sliding the lid from the box to reveal a sprig of mistletoe inside. For some reason he felt his heart jump in his chest at the sight and the idea that Sam had seen it up in that tree and thought of him. Thankfully if he had blushed upon opening the gift, he could easily blame it on the cold. “That is very thoughtful of you, Sam,” he breathed, offering a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you.”
Sam nodded again, though this time in farewell. He tossed the strap of his bag over his shoulder and reached out to shake Frodo’s hand, then thought better of it and waved instead. “You’re very welcome, Mister Frodo,” he replied, stepping back toward the porch steps. “Stay warm, you hear? And Merry Christmas! Don’t have too much fun!”
Despite the chill of the outdoors being safely locked away as Frodo closed the front door, he felt a little colder in the growing distance between himself and his gardener. He slumped against the door, squeezing the box of mistletoe in one hand and thumbing the ring hanging from his neck with the other. If there was one thing he expected to have this Christmas, too much fun was not on the list.
Frodo’s uncle had always been a prolific writer. Bilbo Baggins was a household name in the literary world, having authored several award-winning fantasy novels. Frodo himself was an aspiring writer, but critics always had a sharp eye on his work because of the massive shoes he needed to fill. His uncle had passed in the summer, leaving him with a large sum of money, a sizable home, and an unbearable entourage of paparazzi at every turn. He wore Bilbo’s ring on his neck to remind him of family, but at times the weight of it felt so heavy it could crush his chest and his heart along with it.
This Christmas was the first that Frodo would spend without his uncle to accompany him. As he thumbed the box in his hand he couldn’t help but wonder how Sam and his wife Rosie were spending the evening, their smiles glinting with the golden firelight and their laughter ringing out like an angel’s choir. Perhaps Sam had gotten a sprig of mistletoe for their home as well, and they’d kiss beneath it before eating a romantic Christmas dinner and opening meaningful gifts beside their wonderfully decorated tree.
A pang of unexpected jealousy gripped Frodo’s heart at the thought, his lips curling into a firm frown. With a sigh he stood and walked back to his sitting room, tossing the dirt-smeared gift box on a side table as he passed. He sat back in his well-worn sitting chair and picked up the book he had been reading – one of Bilbo’s – sliding his fingers idly across the chain on his neck as he read about epic journeys and fantastical adventures.
His life felt mind-numbingly plain compared to the characters of Bilbo’s stories; he was a mediocre author with no loved ones to speak of, no name for himself, and no friends to call upon during lonely holidays. He sat near the fire, contemplative, and refused to look up at the tree he had decorated by himself in the home where he sat alone, nothing to bake in the oven and no one to sit at his table and share stories of the year departed. He sighed, shaking his head, and set the book aside after a few chapters, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning his head back to sleep away the hours of this underwhelming holiday.
When Frodo awoke it was nearly evening. His stomach reminded him loudly that he had forgotten to make breakfast and slept through lunch. With a grunt he stood, muttering, “Alright, alright, I’ve heard you.” He stretched his arms high and arched his back so far that he shuddered, groaning with the effort. Chinese takeout seemed to be the food that would take the least effort to order, so he pulled his phone from his pocket and blinked sleepily at it.
1 missed call. The notification appeared on screen, demanding his attention. He didn’t expect to hear from anyone. When he checked the caller ID, he saw it was from Samwise Gamgee. ‘Perhaps he left some tools here,’ Frodo thought, and stepped into his shoes to check the yard as he listened to his voicemail.
“Good evening, Mister Frodo, sorry to be a bother. I’m sure you’re quite busy tonight, so there’s no need to call back. I was just wondering, er, if you had time, if you might like to accompany Miss Rosie and I for tea. We live in the yellow house on 42nd and Maple if you find yourself nearby.” There was a pause in the sender’s voice as if there was something more to say but uncertainty of how to say it. Then, “Good night, Mister Frodo, and Merry Christmas.”
Frodo stood in the cold, his extremities turning red as snow clung to his skin. The sun was nearly set now, the street lit only by the twinkling of his neighbor’s elaborate decorations. How peculiar a message to receive from his gardener. It was unprofessional, wasn’t it, to visit Sam’s home for personal reasons? And yet he could not deny that he considered it. It would be nice to have some company on Christmas, but how pitiful it would seem to Sam and Rosie that he had nowhere else to be on such an important date. Not that they would be the ones to judge. Frodo hired Sam exactly because he was never one to gossip or pry.
By now he had contemplated for too long, his ears burning where the freezing temperatures had bit him, and he was forced to retreat back inside. As he shut the door something caught the corner of his eye, reflecting the sparkle of the outdoor Christmas lights. The mistletoe still waited patiently on its bed of carefully unwrapped gift paper.
Frodo set his phone aside and picked up the box, gingerly removing the sprig from its container like it was a precious jewel. It was so pristine it looked nearly artificial, vibrant green with a few white berries adorning it. He nodded decidedly and took it to his kitchen, digging around in his drawers full of unorganized junk until he found a bit of string and tied it to the mistletoe’s stem. He hung it up just inside his front door, an attempt at scraping together some sense of tradition even if it would go unused. When he looked up at it he smiled, placing a hand on his hip as he examined his handiwork. Perhaps his uncle would tell him to find someone to kiss under that mistletoe this year; certainly he wouldn’t want him to be alone on Christmas.
His stomach grumbled again, reminding him that he hadn’t ordered anything for dinner yet. It took only a quick glance out the window to see that the snow was picking up, so if he wanted to order takeout he would have to hurry. He checked the time and cursed; it was much later now than he thought. Several minutes of scouring online yielded little luck for his dinner. Eventually he gave up with a dejected sigh, shaking his head frustratedly at himself. He dropped the phone into his pocket and took a peek into his fridge, which glared back at him just as empty as his gut. He whimpered again, grabbing a handful of his own sable hair and gripping it frustratedly.
In that moment he couldn’t help but let his mind drift to the Gamgees again, and the smile on Sam’s face that was so bright it nearly outshined the sun. Even the thought warmed Frodo’s cheeks and hands as if it were a pleasant spring day. He mused with a chuckle, then, that Sam used his smile to tempt flowers to grow, to beckon seeds out of their shells with his everlasting warmth and light. What was he thinking, ignoring their offer? He always thought Sam a fool for being so optimistic no matter the occasion, but perhaps he was the foolish one for allowing himself to wallow in loneliness when he was clearly offered a solution to his sorrows.
He clenched his fists. He unclenched his fists. He patted the outside of his coat. He reached into his pocket. Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps they were already off to bed, prepared for an early Christmas morning.
‘No,’ Frodo thought to himself, ‘Thinking like that is what’s gotten you into this wretched state in the first place.’
He retrieved his phone from his pocket. He hovered his thumb over the dial button next to Sam’s name.
The doorbell rang.
No longer trapped in his personal thunderstorm of what-ifs, Frodo looked up, ears trained on the sound. He stuffed both hands back into his pocket and made his way hesitantly toward the door, taking note of how each click of his short-heeled shoes on the hardwood pinpricked the usual silence of his home. He opened the door with a suspicious frown, expecting cold, and was instead greeted by a placating warmth that bloomed across his cheeks.
“Good evening, Mister Frodo. If you’re busy we can leave right away, but Rosie and I were taking a walk down the street to look at the lights when we passed by your place, and she said she’d sure like to meet you after all the chatterin’ I do about you, sir, so I thought we’d stop by and say hello.”
The gardener spoke in long, strung-together sentences, as if pausing to take a breath would give Frodo too much time to slam the door in his face. Beside him stood a woman even shorter than himself but just as stout and ruddy-complexioned, with tight golden curls that came down over her shoulders. She smiled at Frodo politely; her mittened hands were carrying a large casserole dish and several bags hung from her arms, making it obvious that the couple did not stroll past his home coincidentally. Frodo thought he should be angered by the invasion of privacy and the crossing of professional boundaries, but instead he found himself greatly relieved to see their faces.
“Oh, please, won’t you come in? That cold could turn you to ice if you stand there at my door for too long,” he insisted, nodding and smiling as he stepped back to gesture them inside. As they shared pleasantries and gratefully slipped into the warmth of his home, Frodo noticed Rosie glance up at the mistletoe then cast a knowing smile at Sam. For some reason the gesture made him feel a flutter in his chest somewhere between guilt and excitement.
Rosie immediately took her things to the kitchen, clicking her tongue against her teeth and shaking her head at the lack of food in Frodo’s fridge. “Good thing we had leftovers!” she declared, helping herself to Frodo’s cabinets as she rummaged for dinnerware. Sam stood in the doorway, rubbing his hands together and kicking the snow from his shoes.
“So, Mister Frodo,” he began, unwrapping his scarf, “how is Christmas Eve treatin’ you?” His words flowed like honey. Frodo wondered how they might taste.
“I’m afraid it has been quite uneventful,” he admitted truthfully, the dimples on his cheeks giving away his smile, “until now.”
When Sam placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder, Frodo was surprised by the strength of his grip. For someone who spent most of his time communing with delicate flowers, Sam’s hands were not soft nor beautiful. Still Frodo relished them, as he relished this moment, and found himself distracted from whatever small talk was moving across Sam’s cold-reddened lips.
“Mhm,” Frodo hummed absently, unsure of if Sam had asked a question or not, and drew the subject away from his lack of attention by adding, “Thank you for bringing your leftovers. I truly appreciate your thoughtfulness, Sam.”
Sam looked amused, his eyes glittering. He was no longer wearing overalls, instead his thumbs tucked comfortably into the suspenders beneath his coat. “It’s my pleasure, sir,” he said, and the truth in it felt precious as it hung in the air.
“Hey, let’s not stand there until the food’s cold as the ice on your windows, eh? Come and get it while it’s hot!” Rosie’s voice came from the dining room, her head popping around the corner briefly before disappearing again.
Frodo cleared his throat to rid it of the bashfulness that clung there, raising an arm in the direction from which Rosie had just been seen. “After you, Sam.”
Across the dining table Rosie had set several dishes, all of which made Frodo’s stomach leap with anticipation. Roast and potatoes, green beans, sweetened ham, freshly-baked dinner rolls, several casseroles, and pumpkin pie sprawled out in a delicious array, the smells alone more satisfying than anything Frodo could’ve ordered from a restaurant at this hour. At the end of the table stood Rosie, her hands idly smoothing down her dress as she looked out over her creation with pride. “Sit, Mister Frodo,” she said, waving him over to a chair and pulling it out for him. “Sit and eat.”
Frodo liked Rosie. She spoke her mind when there was something on it to speak. She did not wait for permission nor approval, and certainly she spoke plenty.
The three of them sat together at the table, passing plates and heaping spoonfuls and telling stories between large mouthfuls. When they spoke it felt easy, like floating downriver. Frodo found sentences spilling from his mouth with reckless abandon, forgetting for a moment that his visitors were not lifelong friends but his gardener and a woman who he’d only just met. They laughed, a comforting sound like the crackle of a fire to remind you of the life it gives. When the conversation deepened they grew quiet, brows furrowed with sympathy and understanding. When Frodo mentioned that this was the first Christmas without his uncle, each of his visitors took his hands into their own and squeezed.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Rosie, her voice soft and genuine.
“It’s okay,” Frodo replied, and perhaps it was. He looked at her face, then Sam’s, and smiled gratefully to each of them. And when he met Sam’s eyes – really met them – he felt an overwhelming desire to fall into his arms, to be caressed by the gardener’s large hands, to be treated as delicately as a flower.
“Don’t you worry, Rosie, Mister Frodo’s always been a strong one. He’s always persistent. He’s been through some real hard things but he always keeps on going. No matter what, he keeps going.” Although he addressed Rosie as he spoke, Sam did not break eye contact with Frodo. There was something palpable between them, something like the smell of warm cookies or the weight of a promise.
Despite her greatest attempts to leave them be in that moment Rosie’s chair scraped loudly against the wood floor, announcing raucously that she was leaving the table. Frodo’s attention turned to her, flustered as he smoothed his vest front and stood to accompany her back to the kitchen with their dirtied plates.
“Oh, my! Look at the time,” he exclaimed, pointing just behind Rosie to a nearby clock mounted on the wall. It was nearly half past one.
Rosie raised her eyebrows in surprise and Sam sucked in a gasp. “Well, Mister Frodo, you know what they say. Time flies!” The three of them walked single file to the kitchen, setting their dishes into the sink.
“I suppose it does, when you have company like the two of you around.” Frodo turned to them and smiled warmly, a tenderness filling him that he had not felt in a good many years.
“We should be going then, though, right Sam? We’ve got an early morning tomorrow after all.” Rosie’s question sounded more like a statement than a request for an answer. Together the three of them washed the empty bakeware before neatly packing them away into the bags they’d come in. Frodo had never felt more satisfied to be doing the dishes.
Eventually they ushered themselves to the front entrance, Rosie holding the bags on her arms and Sam tying his scarf to his neck just inside the doorway before taking his hat in his hands.
“Thank you so much for stopping by, both of you,” Frodo said, unable to properly convey how deeply he meant it.
“Thank you for having us!” Rosie replied, chuckling. Her hands were quite full so Frodo opened the door for her, flinching at the cold that pressed its way in as he did. She stepped outside first then turned around to face them, smiling all the time. They were similar in that way, Sam and Rosie. Their smiles were constant, always beaming, always warm.
Samwise looked up at Frodo now, thumbing the rim of his hat with both hands. “Well, Mister Frodo, this is good night then. I hope you have a Merry Christmas.” He averted his gaze shyly as he stood just inside the open door, his face flushing pink the longer he stood there. There was something he wanted to say, but wouldn’t say it, the same silence that had relayed in his message earlier.
It was then that Frodo remembered it. He felt a wave of realization send a shiver down his spine more prominent than the winter breeze on his face, and he cast a nervous glance at Rosie. To his surprise she was still smiling a knowing smile, and she gave a nod of encouragement after breaking eye contact with him briefly to look at the sprig of mistletoe hanging just above his head. “Sam,” he breathed, unable to say anything else, and Sam understood.
His lips were surprisingly soft for a man with such firm hands. Their kiss was chaste and tentative, as Frodo imagined any first kiss would be. Sam moved one hand to press it gently to Frodo’s cheek, the other still holding his hat against Frodo’s shoulder. Any cold air from the open door melted away as Frodo wrapped himself in Sam’s warmth, searching a free space in Sam’s heart and nestling there. Just as quickly as it began it was over, but the moments after would never be the same as the moments before.
Rosie rocked forward onto her toes and then back on her heels, humming in amusement. “I’m glad you’ve finally done it,” she said, chuckling. “You’ve no idea how often he’s spoken of doing that!”
Sam’s smile was small and sheepish now as he placed his hat onto his head, tugging it down over his ears. “I suppose that’s true,” he agreed, his voice not much more than a murmur.
“I’ve thought of it too,” Frodo admitted, unable to mask his own smile now as he fiddled with the sleeve of his coat. For being such an astute writer, at this moment he found himself at a loss for words. “Merry Christmas, Sam,” was all he could say.
“I hope you get all you wish for,” Sam replied, and stepped back until he was able to link arms with Rosie. He waved and she nodded in farewell before they turned to make their way back home.
Frodo shut the door behind them, slumped against the door with a sigh, and ran his fingers across the ring hanging from his neck. He looked up at the little green stem hanging over him and smiled. In the morning he would not need any presents under his Christmas tree so as long as he had Samwise Gamgee under his mistletoe.