Chapter Text
Sam hears the three telltale knocks at the door and could almost cry out with relief. He doesn't get up: beside the fire, Frodo needs him more, and Bilbo can let himself in just fine— this was, after all, his house for over one hundred years. It still is, in some ways: Bilbo's presence is indelible from the nooks and crannies of the smial, and though it now belongs to Frodo, in Sam's mind the house will never be entirely separate from Bilbo. Which is why it is such a relief that, with the new master ill, the old one has come to do what he knows best: preside over Bag End.
Sure enough, there it is, the creak of the door and then the sound of two sets of footsteps walking into the smial. They linger by the door for an instant, presumably hanging up their coats, and then the sound of the door closing reaches Sam all the way in the parlor.
"Sam?" he hears Bilbo call, a voice that bounces off the walls with as much familiarity as Sam recalls it. All of a sudden, the quiet home feels warmer.
"In the parlor!" Sam calls back, and then there is the sound of footsteps again, heading from the front door. Before he knows it, at the door of the parlor stands Bilbo, and the sight nearly crushes the heart in Sam's chest. The seven years they've been apart have done Bilbo good: he finally looks like a hobbit his age, with a full head of gray hair instead of just the strands at his temples. His kindly face is wrinkled and his eyes look smaller than they ever have behind a pair of delicate spectacles set on the bridge of his nose. He doesn't look old yet, just old er , but the impression wears on Sam: it is a tangible reminder of the time they've spent apart.
Bilbo seems to have felt it too. "Sam-lad," he says with a smile, opening his arms, and Sam feels like a little boy again as he rises from his seat and rushes to hug the old master, giddy at the term of endearment. Bilbo hugs him and then draws away to hold him by the shoulders at arm's length. "My, look how you've grown."
"Scarcely, Mr. Bilbo," Sam says, laughing even as he feels himself tear up. Bilbo joins in the laugh, and Sam knows he's happy to see him, and that knowledge only makes the swelling in his chest grow bolder.
And then, there it is, that gruff voice that Sam was so scared of as a young hobbit, and that even after all these years never fails to startle him. "Where is he?"
"Oh, at least say hello, Thorin, be polite," Bilbo reprimands his husband, who has been standing behind him all this time and has now finally stepped out of the shadows to stand beside him, grown weary of the formalities.
"Master Samwise," Thorin grunts, putting out a hand to shake Sam's. Sam has to remind himself that the dwarf doesn't dislike him, it's just that he talks like that, and forces his hand to clasp his and shake it once, firmly. That much is enough for Thorin, who detaches himself and walks to the couch by the fire where the small, blanket-covered lump that is Frodo right now lies.
Bilbo observes the exchange with some amusement and leans in to whisper conspiratorially in Sam's ear: "You're not still scared of Thorin, are you, my boy?"
"N-no, Mr. Bilbo, sir," Sam responds, but he knows he's lying even as the words stammer out of his mouth. There's just something scary about the brooding, broad-shouldered dwarf, and despite the almost thirty years of knowing him, Sam still hasn't been able to shake it. But it has gotten somewhat better, at least. Sam burns with shame every time he remembers Thorin's visit to Bag End when he was seven or eight. That time, he had run crying in alarm to his father to tell him that the dark, scary dwarf had locked himself and Mr. Bilbo in the master's bedroom, ensuing in a very uncomfortable experience for all involved when Hamfast had opened the door to find the dwarf and his apparent hostage in bed without too much clothing on. Bilbo may have forgotten the incident, easy-natured as he is when it comes to Sam, but Sam never will. Part of him will always flush with shame when he looks on Thorin.
But now Bilbo pats Sam on the shoulder and follows his husband, who stands over the couch looking at the figure occupying it.
"Did you get my message?" Sam asks as he, too, nears the couch.
"Yes, we met your post-hobbit as we were crossing the Bywater Bridge," Bilbo says.
"Smacked into him, is more like it," Thorin weighs in with a grunt. Bilbo glares at him before he turns back to Sam.
"He only told us that Frodo was ill. What happened?"
"I'm not sure," Sam says, the short-lived relief evaporated as he returns to the worry he's been mucking about in all day. "I came up from the Row to make him his breakfast and found him like this, white in the face and curled up in pain. I knew as you and Master Thorin were due for a visit today, so I told him lie down and rest it out, but it didn't much improve. So I got afraid and sent out the post-hobbit saying as Mr. Frodo was sick, see if he could find you on your way, since you must already be close."
"Hm," Bilbo says, stepping closer. "Will he live?"
"Yes, sir, he will."
"Then I'm afraid we may have scared that poor post-hobbit for nothing," sighs Bilbo, moving over to the other side of the couch to see Frodo's face. He crouches between the couch and the fire and brushes a hand over Frodo's forehead, sweeping the chestnut curls. The motion rouses Frodo slightly, and his eyes flicker open slowly, his eyelids heavy as he comes back into the parlor from his sleep. He is met with the sight of his uncle's face, and despite the fact that he feels as though a gaggle of Proudfoots —Proud feet — have trampled all over him, can only smile.
"Bilbo," he croaks.
"Hello, my dear lad," Bilbo says, stroking his forehead once more. "What’s all this about, then? You happen to be sick right when we’re in for a visit? Are you trying to dodge us?"
"Learned it from you around Lobelia," Frodo mutters.
Bilbo's face scrunches in fleeting offense before it sinks in that Frodo is only joking. "Wicked boy," he says, but he, too, is smiling. "What's the matter? Too many mushrooms again?"
"The wrong ones, more like. I was impatient and didn't wait for Sam before picking them," Frodo ekes out, and reaches out a hand toward Sam. Sam balks for a moment before realizing that Frodo means for him to take it, and he wraps both his sturdy palms around Frodo's frail hand, which feels clammy in his grasp. Frodo continues speaking only when Sam's touch is there: "Sam never mixes up the mushrooms. I thought I didn't, either, but I guess I need to brush up on my agarics."
"Ah. A rookie mistake," Bilbo says, sympathizing with his nephew despite being an abysmal (though asiduous) mushroom picker himself, but that doesn't matter now. "Good thing you weren't picking amanitas. Then we might be in some trouble."
"Sam never lets me pick amanitas," Frodo says, but his voice has lost solidity, and dissolves into a murmur as sleep claims him again. His hand goes limp in Sam's grasp, but Sam doesn't drop it: he lets it slip out gently and sets it back beside Frodo's face on the cushion he's using for a pillow, the way he knows Frodo places his hands when he sleeps.
Bilbo sees that he won't be getting much more out of his nephew. Smiling, he kisses his forehead and rises to his feet, and then the onus is on Sam again.
"What's the matter with him?" Thorin asks, worried. He is fond of Frodo, as he knows Frodo is of him, but the hobbit seems to have taken no notice of his presence, even peripherally. This aloofness is a far cry from the eager youngling that used to run to intercept his cart as it came into the outskirts of Hobbiton, all those years ago, and is enough to set off the warning bells in Thorin's head.
"He's been chucking his lunch, and I suppose a bit of last night's dinner," Sam explains.
"I assume that was the mushrooms?"
Sam nods. "He sautéed them. I was helping my Gaffer do some fixing work down at Number Three, which is why I couldn't eat with him, but I—"
"Nobody blames you, Sam," Bilbo calms him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Again Sam feels like he did when he was a boy, when just a word from Mr. Bilbo made everything better. "My nephew is simply paying the price for being gluttonous. He'll be alright by this time tomorrow. And we can wait it out, can't we, Thorin?"
He looks to his husband, but the dwarf seems to have turned into stone like the one lining his halls, and is still staring at the back of the couch where Frodo lays. "I'm going to brew him a draught," he announces solemnly, and stomps back down the hall toward the kitchen.
Bilbo raises his eyebrows as he watches him go. "Dear me, he truly must be worried if he's cooking. I'd better go with him to make sure he doesn't wreak too much havoc on my poor kitchen."
He disappears after Thorin, and Sam smiles to himself with the memory of an old story. Of course Bilbo would want to keep dwarves out of his kitchen, be it the full thirteen or just the one. Sighing, Sam retakes his seat on the little footstool by the head of the couch, where he has spent the majority of the day looking over Frodo, only leaving his side to bring them both some lunch (and then the bucket when said lunch came back up again) and to find the post-hobbit. His buttocks are numb and protest even as he retakes his place, but Sam doesn't even notice, and if he does, he doesn't care. Keeping his place by Frodo right now is the only thing that feels right, whether his body likes it or not.
He looks over his master with a mix of worry and tenderness. Frodo's face is pale, its greenish tinge imperceptible, nullified in the orange firelight that bathes it, and his features are contorted into a grimace that lets on his pain. He is curled up, tighter than the knot in which he usually sleeps, his shirt open at the chest in an effort to sweat out the fever and his forehead drenched with its results. The hair is matted where it has rubbed too much against the scratchy cushion, and Sam runs his fingers slowly through it, trying to undo the tangles without yanking on Frodo's hair. But even in his anguish, Frodo's face remains easy to look on: it is the same fine nose and small mouth, the same high cheeks and slender jaw, and Sam knew that if he opened his eyes, it would be the same bright blue looking out at him.
He remains by his side, stroking his hair, even as the clang of pots and pans and the sound of an argument bubbles up and trickles down the hall from the kitchen. Sam smiles to himself: Bag End feels full again, fuller than it has in years, and it is better by far than the tense silence in which he and Frodo have sat all afternoon. Under his touch, Frodo doesn't even shift. Sam, however, doesn't draw away his hand: he knows the touch soothes Frodo, who cherishes every brush of skin avidly, and he wants to soothe him.
Only a few minutes pass before Thorin returns from the kitchen, carrying a cup of a strong-smelling liquid. Wordlessly, he crouches in front of the couch as Bilbo did minutes ago, and he nudges Frodo with his free hand. When Frodo comes to, it is Thorin's beakish nose and bushy beard that greets him.
"Drink, young Master Baggins," Thorin bids him, slipping in the nickname that used to amuse Frodo so as a boy, back when Thorin had no idea how to properly speak to him and refused to believe Bilbo that 'just Frodo' was okay.
Frodo mumbles something, but Thorin doesn't quite catch it. "What?"
"He says he needs some help," Sam steps in, moving from the footstool. Carefully, he helps Frodo sit up and shifts the cushion his head was laying on so now Sam is sitting where Frodo's head was. With the same care, he settles Frodo against his shoulder and arm, cradling him as he helps him sit up. He gestures to Thorin to pass him the cup, and Thorin does, handing it to Sam with some awe at just how easily he understood Frodo at the least eloquent Thorin’s ever heard him be.
Sam brushes his thumb lightly against Frodo's cheek to let him know the cup is nearing his mouth, and Frodo responds to the gesture by opening his mouth slightly so Sam can set the brim of the cup against his lower lip and tilt it slightly upward to let the warm liquid course down Frodo's throat without choking him. Thorin and Bilbo can only stand by and look on as Sam helps Frodo down the draught, slowly but steadily taking sips until the whole cup has been emptied, only the grayish dregs left behind.
Sam hands the empty cup back to Thorin and stands up slowly from his seat, supporting Frodo's head all the while and replacing the cushion he shifted to settle Frodo's head back on it. Satisfied, Frodo smacks his lips once and then rolls over, back asleep to help the remedy work its effects.
Bilbo sighs. "Well, I suppose all that is left to do now is watch and wait. Thorin, dear, would you get my knitting for me, please?"
Thorin, who has been yearningly eyeing one of the armchairs at either end of the longer couch on which Frodo lays, huffs but goes down the hall anyway, back to the coatrack where their belongings hang. He has always been unable to say no to Bilbo, in the most endearing of ways.
Bilbo, in the meantime, chooses the other armchair, nestling into the cushy backrest with contentment. "Ah, I can't tell you how much I've missed my chairs, Sam-lad. The dwarves are quite handy at many a thing, but nobody does comfort like hobbits. But if there is one good thing has come from the stone chairs at Erebor, it is just how much my posture has improved."
Bilbo laughs, but it takes Sam a moment to join in. Only then does Bilbo notice just how tired he looks.
"My, Sam, you look exhausted. You say you've been looking on Frodo all day?"
"It's been really no trouble, Mr. Bilbo, sir," Sam says, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks.
"Why don't you go lie down, lad? It's the very least of what you deserve."
Sam looks uncomfortable for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before he squeaks: "I'm going to get dinner going for you and Mr. Thorin, sir."
He scurries down the hall and Bilbo chuckles to himself as he watches him go. He's the same old Sam he knows: so used to caring for others that he never stops to consider he might care for himself as well. Still, Bilbo thinks, this could be a form of self-care for Sam. He needs to get away from Frodo for a bit, to let the worry in his mind dispel somewhat, and the boy likes cooking. Besides, Bilbo has never been one to turn down any of Sam Gamgee's dishes.
Thorin returns with all of Bilbo's satchel, not having bothered to search for the knitting in it, and drops it on Bilbo's lap before (finally) taking his place at the armchair. Bilbo hums in gratitude and extracts the knitting, the knotted wool with its needles and the ball of yarn threaded from its end. As he takes up the craft again, Thorin settles into the chair, watching Frodo as he sleeps.
The smial is quiet then, falling into a pattern of soft, measured noises. There is the pace of Frodo's breath as he draws it in and out in his sleep, and the crackling of the logs in the hearth, fire washing its light over Frodo's face. There is the clacking of Bilbo's needles against each other, and the soft tapping of Thorin's foot against the floor. In the distance, there is the sound of food as Sam cooks, the sizzling of something in a pan and the occasional clang of a utensil against another. Bag End is back in the rhythm of everyday life, with the comforts of a homely routine filling it, and the feeling blankets each of its occupants in a cozy embrace.
Eventually, Thorin's tapping is replaced by a muted snoring: he has fallen asleep in his chair beside Frodo. The sound of sizzling ceases as well, and then there is the sound of footsteps as Sam comes back from the kitchen into the parlor. "Dinner is ready," he announces.
Bilbo turns around in his armchair to look at Sam, putting down his knitting. "It seems it'll be just the two of us, lad. That is, if you'll eat with me?"
"Oh, of course!" Sam says, delighted. But then he wavers: he casts his eyes over the scene in the parlor, Thorin asleep and Frodo as well. His gaze lingers over the footstool that has been his guard post all day.
But Bilbo knows him too well. "Frodo will be fine," he assures him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "If he should wake up, Thorin will be there. And Thorin cares about Frodo as much as you or I do, I promise. Frodo will be fine."
Sam hesitates for a moment more, torn between staying with his master or enjoying a meal with his old one, and finally follows Bilbo into the kitchen.
The food is laid on the small wooden table in the kitchen, and Bilbo surveys it —a pan of potatoes sautéed golden with butter and herbs, a block of cheese beside a knife, and a few diced tomatoes tossed with salt and pepper— before deciding that it is lacking only one thing. He leaves briefly for the pantry and returns with a loaf of sourdough bread Sam baked two days ago, and then they sit down to eat. They eat with gusto, using forks and slices of the bread to take the food to their mouths, a simple meal but a good one. At last, Bilbo clears his plate and finishes the glass of milk that Sam put out for lack of ale or cider, smacking his lips before licking off the residues of milk that rim them.
"How is it that your cooking gets better every time I eat it?"
"It's just the comforts of home you're missing, sir," Sam says, humbly. "Even just a simple supper of cheese and potatoes would be glory to me too after seven years from home."
Bilbo sighs, then, and a wistful look comes over him. "Yes, it has been quite a while, hasn't it?"
The look on Bilbo's face tugs at Sam's heart, awakening a gratitude he has long held but never expressed. "I never got to thank you, sir."
"Thank me, my dear boy? Whatever for?"
"For staying, all these years. Instead of going with Mr. Thorin from the beginning. You might have spent more time with him, sir."
"Oh, don't mention it," Bilbo says, waving it off as is his nature. "I wasn't ready to leave the Shire right after my little adventure, and then one thing led to another, and I wanted to see Frodo grown and ready to become Master of Bag End before I left it to him. That's hardly a thing to thank me for. And I know Thorin loves visiting— sure, he can be an old grump, but he's loved the Shire since that first time he was here, and visits to his husband were the perfect excuse for when he needed to get away from Erebor for a bit. Besides, I thought my little stunt at my eleventy-first party was the perfect goodbye, didn't you?"
Sam smiles at the memory. That smile, however, is soon wiped back into seriousness, because he hasn't gotten to the more important part, to the crux of this whole thing. "I do, sir. But what I’m meaning to say is, I know you didn't have to stay as long. Mr. Frodo was grown long before he turned thirty-three, and you might've gone before to Mr. Thorin. What I mean," he says, suddenly hatefully aware that he's going in circles, "is you didn't have to stay as long for me."
Now Bilbo understands. In the tremulous amber of the solitary candle that lights the kitchen, his face looks soft as melted butter as he looks at Sam tenderly. "Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to see you grown as well. To see you learn your letters, and know a few words of Elvish, and take over Master Hamfast and my garden... You, the little hobbit who always had room for more of my stories. Frodo's my ward, yes, but an old hobbit's entitled to more than one favorite, isn't he?"
But Sam still can't meet his eyes. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Bilbo, sir, but I just can't help but feel guilt when I think of all the years you might have lost at Mr. Thorin's side for my sakes—"
"Sam, I haven't lost anything," Bilbo says, suddenly stern. "Don't feel guilty. I stayed at Bag End for as long as I did because I chose to, and that was a choice that I made for myself knowing full well what it implied. I have lived a good life— in fact, I am living a good life, and I would be a fool not to love the road I've trod thus far. Regrets are pesky, and inconvenient, as one day you'll learn, hopefully sooner than later. I have much ahead of me, and I am happy for every piece of what has been behind." Then the sternness morphs into a smile. "And besides, Thorin and I have many years in store. Dwarves live long lives, and I am an unusually long-lived hobbit, as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins or the rest of the Hobbiton rumor mill would be all too happy to tell you all about."
Then Sam ventures a glance at Bilbo, and finds only kindness in the old hobbit's eyes. "Go to him," Bilbo whispers, squeezing his hand across the table once softly. "I'll do the dishes. I know how much you've been wanting to steal away into the parlor for the night."
"Oh, thank you," Sam breathes out, and dashes back to the parlor with none of his usual protests whenever one of the Baggins wants to do housework. He knows he can trust Thorin, but his mind has been on Frodo all the night, and he would hate it if Frodo woke to find no one there that wasn't sleeping.
But Frodo is still asleep. As Sam resumes his place on the footstool, he combs his hair back from his forehead, placing his palm against it to check for a fever. Frodo's skin is cooler now, still somewhat warm but much less so than earlier, and his face has untwisted and now looks more relaxed, a sign Sam takes to signal that he is in less pain. He takes the hand that rests on Frodo's cushion beside his face, again, between both of his own, and holds it there. Frodo, again, doesn't even shift. He's passed out for good, and will likely be for the better part of the night. It seems like Thorin's draught has had its desired effect after all.
The parlor is placid: Frodo sleeps, Thorin snores, and Sam merely looks on and holds his master's hand as from the kitchen come the sounds of dishwashing (and the occasional curse peppered in, whenever a dish slips from Bilbo's grasp). The dishes are few, and the scene lasts only a bit longer before Bilbo returns from the kitchen to take it in.
"Is he asleep?" he whispers to Sam. Sam only nods in response, not wanting to disturb the first truly peaceful rest Frodo has had all day. "Then we'd best let him," Bilbo says, walking over to the armchair where Thorin rests. He places a hand on his husband’s shoulder and shakes him gently. "Thorin, dear, Frodo's asleep. Let's head to bed. It's been a long day of long travels."
Thorin only grunts something in response, which Sam can't quite make out, but lets himself be helped out of his armchair by Bilbo, who drapes one of Thorin's arms over his shoulders and uses his own arm to support the dwarf along the waist. With Thorin in a hold, Bilbo prepares to head to the master bedroom —which Frodo has never wanted to occupy in these seven years, preferring to keep his own—, but he looks at Sam over his shoulder one last time.
"Will you be alright on your own here, Sam-lad?"
Sam nods. "Aye, Mr. Bilbo. I'd like to stay, anyway."
"Just make sure you get some sleep, will you?" Bilbo says. Sam nods, and then Bilbo bids him goodnight and disappears down the hall with Thorin in tow.
Sam sighs and burrows deeper into his place on the footstool at the head of Frodo's couch. He watches him in silence, watches the glow of the fire bathe him as it dies, and holds his hand lovingly as he sleeps. Soon, Frodo shifts in his sleep and tries to ball himself up tighter. The movement rouses a drowsy Sam, who forces his eyes open to see the goosebumps that have risen on Frodo's flesh, his teeth chattering slightly. This is a good sign, in part: if Frodo's cold again, that means the fever has gone fully, a sign that Sam has been waiting for all day. But if Frodo's cold, then that means he's not comfortable, and Sam can't have him waking because of it.
He glances at the fire: it is almost out, just a few orange-lined embers keeping the parlor warm. Sam throws on another log and stokes it, and has the flames roaring back up in no time. But Frodo is still shivering, even as the warmth floods the parlor once more. Sam laces up the shirt and pulls the thin blanket over Frodo, up to his chin, but that won't do: Frodo is beginning to toss, and a few incoherent mumbles have begun to form at his lips. Sam weighs his options: he could get up and fetch another blanket, but he hates the thought of leaving Frodo alone even for a second— what if he were to wake up and find himself alone? The thought fills Sam with anguish. He scans the parlor to see if he can find anything there that might warm Frodo up, but there is nothing: the throws on the back of the armchairs are thin and purely ornamental, and Sam himself went around the house just yesterday picking up the cardigans that Frodo discards just anywhere, to put back in his closet. For once, Sam curses his organization. If only he'd missed one cardigan!
He looks at Frodo, whose grimace has returned and is deepening by the second, and decides in a split second what he can do. The couch is wide enough, and Frodo is so slight, he barely takes up half of it. Sam kicks off his shoes and lifts the edge of the blanket, lowering himself onto the couch gradually so the sudden change in weight won't wake Frodo. He doesn't wake up, but he takes notice of Sam beside him, and he rolls over to face the back of the armchair so that his back is now to the fireplace. Sam lays himself beside him, the length of the couch, and also gives his back to the hearth, his warm chest pressed against the back of Frodo's sweated-through shirt. His arm finds its way around Frodo's waist, still holding his hand, and his face nestles along the nape of Frodo's neck, the warm breath coming out of his nose smoothening some of the goosebumps there.
Frodo softens in Sam's arms and in no time has stopped shivering, his breathing returning back to its normal sleepy pace. He shifts slightly, only to cozy up more fully to Sam, and Sam's heart swells when he notices that Frodo is shifting closer to him. Wrapped around Frodo, all Sam can feel is warmth: the rise and fall of Frodo's chest and the warmth emanating onto Sam's chest from him, the thin blanket over them (which isn't doing much in the way of warming them up, but is keeping the body heat between them shrouded in a pocket), the fire crepitating happily on the new log Sam has fed it. It isn't long before Sam succumbs to the blissful warmth, dozing off with his arm around his master. The two hobbits sleep fit together like puzzle pieces, sharing a single cramped couch and the warmth between them.
An hour or two pass before Frodo stirs, his eyelids struggling to open as he comes back from the deep sleep Thorin's draught put him into. He awakes to the same sensation Sam fell asleep to: warmth . The fire is crackling contentedly in the hearth, the parlor gleams orange with its glow, and around him is a familiar arm, sun-browned and lined with hairs that have lightened into gold from the sunrays.
Sam feels Frodo move and wakes with him, alert to the slightest movement even asleep as he is. In his arms, Frodo rolls over to look at Sam, his face heavy with interrupted sleep and backlit by the fire. Sam smiles at Frodo when he sees him looking.
"They've all gone to sleep, Mr. Frodo," he whispers. "It's just me."
"Oh, Sam," is all Frodo can say in return. Their faces are close, and Frodo can see the freckles smattered over the wide bridge of Sam's nose, can make out each individual dot. Sam's rich brown eyes are soft under his brows, looking at Frodo with a mix of care and concern, and his brownish-blond hair frames his ears nicely. Sam, too, is aware of just how close they are, and hurries to explain himself lest Frodo is alarmed.
"You were cold, Mr. Frodo. I meant to keep you warm, but I didn't want to leave you alone so as I could fetch a blanket, and—"
Frodo shushes him gently, the hiss of air through his lips almost hypnotic, and Sam falls silent. "It's perfectly alright," he reassures Sam, and the hand that was beside his face emerges to brush Sam's cheek lightly. "It's wonderful, Sam."
Sam feels the heat rise to his cheeks, lingering behind Frodo's touch. His hand is still intertwined with Frodo's, but when he rolled over, it moved from his waist; instead, the two clasped hands lie between them, and Frodo makes no attempt to disentangle their fingers. "How are you feeling?" asks Sam.
"Better, much better. Still a little queasy, but much better."
"Ah, then that draught Mr. Thorin gave you must've done its work."
"Good, because that disgusting taste would not have been worth it otherwise." Then Frodo laughs, a lithe, airy laugh, and the very sound of it works wonders to dispel the weight of worry from Sam's chest and send it soaring. "But you humble yourself, Sam," Frodo continues, and again his hand touches Sam's cheek, though this time the touch isn't fleeting: his hand stays, the backs of his fingers just brushing against Sam's skin under them. "It's been you that's taken care of me, hasn't it? If I know you well, you've been here all day, even when you didn't have to."
The touch, mixed as it is with Frodo’s proximity, is beginning to make Sam dizzy. "Ah, but I wanted to— I couldn't have left you alone, Mr. Frodo, not as you were."
Frodo smiles at him, and still his hand doesn't move. Suddenly, Sam is aware of just how close their faces are, of how the tips of their noses are almost touching, of how he can feel Frodo's breath on his skin as it rushes out of his nose, can almost hear it.
"Oh, Sam," Frodo says again, his voice dropped so low Sam wouldn't be able to hear it if they weren't mere inches apart. "What would I do without you?"
Perhaps it is the warmth in the parlor, or the closeness of their bodies, or the sleep that still clouds their eyes, but all of a sudden Frodo's lips are seeking Sam's. Sam feels Frodo kiss him and he doesn't move back or pull away: he parts his lips slightly and tilts his head so his mouth can fit better against Frodo's. Frodo's hand, the one hovering by Sam's cheek, now settles fully over it, his palm radiating warmth and cupping Sam's face as if to keep him in place. Not that it's necessary: Sam wouldn't dare move from where he is right now, not for the world, because every sensation in this moment is the closest he's felt to glory. His own free hand, the one not holding Frodo's, is squeezed under him, but he moves it up now to touch to Frodo's hair on the pillow, wanting to hold on to every bit of the hobbit he's kissing. His finger finds a stray curl and wraps it around itself, making everything more tangible, everything more real. Because he's kissing Frodo Baggins right now— no, more exactly, Frodo Baggins is kissing him , and the scene is something straight out of a dream, so much so that Sam wonders whether he might still be sleeping.
It is Frodo that pulls away, but gently, almost reluctantly. Sam's eyes open slowly, not wanting to end the dream and bring him back into reality, but the sight that meets him is of Frodo up close, and then it doesn't seem so bad. Even as they separate, their lips hang close, so that when Frodo speaks, Sam can almost feel the words falling from Frodo's mouth.
"Stay?" Frodo says, and his voice sounds to Sam almost like a prayer.
Now Sam lets go of Frodo's hand, but not for long, and only so he can place it back around his waist and pull him closer to him. Frodo's hand, now free, also wraps around Sam, snaking below his arm and settling on his back. "You don't even have to ask," Sam whispers. Frodo smiles, that smile Sam knows so well he only reserves for the most intimate of joys, and closes his eyes. Sam does the same, quietly grateful that Frodo can't see the boyish smile of pure happiness that has overtaken his features.
In each other's arms, both hobbits fall asleep facing each other, curled into each other's bodies. As if keeping time with the rise and fall of their chests, the flames ebb and grow along the last of the logs in the hearth, licking at it until it crumbles into ash and the fire dies, sinking the quiet parlor —and, finally, all of Bag End— into quiet, cozy darkness.