Chapter Text
The watery late February sun had just broken out from behind the clouds, and Samwise Gamgee was in a rather good mood.
Not that this was very unusual; Sam being a generally affable and good-nature hobbit. However, during the last three days Hobbiton had seen a rare snowstorm that confined its residents to their smials. But early this morning the snow flurries had finally ceased, and Sam had jumped on the opportunity for some time away from his family. He loved them and enjoyed their company, but who doesn’t grow weary of their sisters and parents after being trapped with no escape for three consecutive days? When he saw his window of opportunity, Sam wasted no time in donning his coat and gloves, shouting over his shoulder that he was going to shovel the walkways on the Row, and shutting the front door before he had a chance to hear an answering reply.
The effect of fresh, cold air after being so long in the stuffy indoors had an immediate invigorating effect. He took up whistling a tune that his mother often sang doing the washing and made quick work of the path to his own front door. By the time he had finished his sisters had emerged, all bundled up and set on rousting out the Cotton lads to go sledding.
“You should come Sam,” said Daisy, speaking around the gloves clenched between her teeth. Her bare fingers were busy rebuttoning Marigold’s coat which had been done up wrong in haste. “It’s been years since we’ve had enough snow to go sledding.” Sam shook his head.
“I ought to finish digging out the rest of the Row. It wouldn’t be right to make The Widow and Daddy Twofoot do it themselves, them getting on in years and all. ‘Sides, the snow will keep.”
“That’s our Sam,” said May, slinging an arm around his shoulders in mock camaraderie. “Always doing right by folks. Tell me Sam lad,” she said with a grin, “are you going to dig out the path up at Bag End too?”
“Don’t see why not,” replied Sam with a scowl, shoving her arm off him. “Mr. Bilbo ain’t exactly a spring chicken neither.”
“Don’t let Mr. Bilbo hear you saying that!” laughed Marigold.
“And anyway,” continued May, “Mr. Frodo lives there too, as I’m sure you’re aware. He’s young and strong.”
“And handsome!”
May and Marigold devolved into giggles while Sam crossed his arms and futilely tried not to blush. Daisy at last took pity on him.
“Enough teasing you two! Heaven knows that there’s plenty of fodder with which to make fun of the both of you, so I’d tread a little lighter,” As she pulled her gloves back on, she turned to Sam and said, “You know where to find us if you change your mind.” Taking Marigold’s arm, she started down the walkway, and then stopped. Turning around with a half-smile she added, “Mr. Frodo can come too if he likes!” and then finally, finally, his sisters were gone.
As Sam made his way over to the Widow’s hole, he decided it was too nice of a day to let his sister’s teasing get under his skin. Yes, perhaps it was true that the real motivation behind the shoveling endeavor had less to do with altruism and more to do with getting a chance to go up to Bag End. And yes, it might also be true that Sam had a deep affection for Mr. Frodo and sought out his company whenever possible. But that didn’t mean anything; leastways, not the anything that his sisters were implying. He was just looking forward to possibly spending time with a dear friend, and if that friend happened to be intelligent and kind and handsome, well, that didn’t mean anything.
If the word “denial” had ever crossed Sam’s mind, it hadn’t made a very lasting impression.
By the time he had finished at the Widow and Daddy Twofoot’s, he was beginning to reconsider how good of an idea this whole shoveling business was. Sweat was dripping unpleasantly down his back and he had slipped twice. But now all his hard work had paid off. Now he had finally reached the top of the Hill, and smoke was rising from the chimney at Bag End and after he had finished shoveling, he would work up the courage to knock on the door and….
The path had already been cleared.
His cunning plan dissolved before his very eyes, and Sam barely had a moment to register his disappointment and annoyance when the front door opened and out bounded the very person that Sam had hoped for in the first place.
“Look, it’s Samwise!” cried Frodo, for Frodo it was. “Just the hobbit I was hoping to run into.”
This really was too much for poor Sam. He had already been thrown off kilter by the abrupt foiling of his plot, but now his bewilderment was compounded by the fact that Mr. Frodo was here in spite of said the foiling– and looking very nice at that. Frodo had donned a coat that Sam had never seen before, made of a bright blue wool, with embroidered red and yellow flowers on the cuffs and hem. In addition to the coat, he also sported a hat, mittens, and a scarf in the same red color as the flowers. Sam desperately searched for something appropriate to say in return: perhaps he should ask why Frodo had been looking for him, or inquire about Mr. Bilbo’s health, or compliment his coat. Even a bland comment about the weather would suffice!
Instead, what he said was this:
“Who did the shoveling?”
“Hmm, oh that? Bilbo did, earlier this morning while I was still in bed. He said he did it to prove that he’s still sprightly,” Frodo grinned. “But I suspect that he just wanted some time to himself.”
As he tossed the dangling end of his scarf over his shoulder, Frodo seemed to take in Sam’s shovel and flushed appearance for the first time.
“Oh. Did you come up here to shovel Sam? I thought…” Frodo shook his head. “But no matter. That was very kind of you. Very thoughtful indeed.”
Sam, who was beginning to feel slightly guilty being on the receiving end of Frodo’s praise, tried to back pedal.
“Oh, ‘twern’t nothing sir. I had already done the Row and figured I might pop up here as well.”
“You already did the Row? Between you and Bilbo I’m looking like quite the slug-a-bed!” exclaimed Frodo. “I suppose that’s why Bilbo insisted I take some fresh air. He said I look positively wilted!” He gave Sam an exaggerated pitiful look. “You don’t think I look wilted, do you Sam?”
“No Mr. Frodo, you don’t look wilted in the slightest. You look lovely…that is to say, you look fine. Or rather, cozy…seeing how that’s a very nice coat you’ve got on,” Sam finished weakly, sure that he was blushing furiously.
If Frodo noticed the fumbling nature of this reply, he made no sign that he had. Instead, he did a self-aware little twirl so that Sam could get the full effect of the coat.
“Do you like it? Merry gave it to me for his birthday last year. Though I harbor some suspicion that he thought I would find it too bold and allow him to keep it for himself, the little imp.”
It was true that Merry Brandybuck had a penchant for bright colors in his wardrobe, while Frodo’s taste ran towards more muted shades. But Sam privately preferred him in the brighter colors. The brilliant blues and reds juxtaposed nicely against Frodo’s pale skin and dark hair, not to mention the cheering effect he had on the snowy landscape.
“And as to your accusation of my being ‘cozy’, I think smothered is more accurate!” Frodo continued indignantly. “Bilbo made me go back and put on more layers at least three times before he would let me out of the smial. Really, he can be terribly overbearing sometimes.”
Sam suppressed a smile. The word “overbearing” applied to Bilbo’s guardianship style as much as the word “tenderhearted” applied to Frodo’s Aunt Lobelia – that is to say, not at all. Bilbo showed remarkably leniency to Frodo’s tweenaged flights of fancy and unconventional behaviors, much to the chagrin to some of their stuffier relations. However, what he lacked in terms of enforcement in the behavioral department he more than made than made up for in the enforcement of weather appropriate attire.
This treatment was due to the fact that a few months after Frodo had first arrived at Bag End, he had fallen dreadfully ill, and had a very close brush with death. And whilst Frodo had eventually made a full recovery after a long convalescence, Bilbo never recovered from the fright he had taken and lived in a constant state of paranoia of a cold-induced relapse. Whenever the mercury got within spitting distance of freezing, he would ply Frodo with coats, hats, mittens, scarves, and sweaters with a near tyrannical vigor.
As if sensing the direction of Sam’s thoughts, Frodo made a conciliatory gesture with his mittened hands.
“He means well, I know. But enough about my attire,” Frodo brightened, looking at Sam hopefully. “I was hoping to catch you to see if you’d like to go for a walk with me? But I see that you’ve already had quite a bit of exercise today…and charitable exercise at that! I’d understand if you’d get some rest.”
Sam elected to not mention that all his charitable exercise had mostly been pretext for him to make his way to Bag End and then just happen to run into Frodo.
“No Mr. Frodo, I can go a good deal longer. A walk would be just fine.”
“Oh good! I’ve missed your company these last days.” The shy smile that Frodo gave him at this response almost made Sam forget that he actually was a bit tired – at the very least, too tired to keep up with the brisk pace that Frodo normally set on their walks.
“Except, you’ll forgive me Mr. Frodo, if I’m not quite up to our standard trot, if you take my meaning.”
Frodo chuckled and took Sam’s arm. “I always take your meanings Master Gamgee. They’re my most treasured possessions. Less of a jaunt, and more of a meander it shall be. Though all the snow might make it more of a wade than anything else.”
Despite Frodo’s prediction, the start of their walk proved to be not too difficult at all. It was late enough in the day that most of the hobbits had ventured out of their holes to partake in wintertide pursuits. The previously unblemished white blanket of snow was now crisscrossed with footprints and little paths. As the pair picked their way down the hill and onto the lane, they passed a groups of hobbit children making snowmen, giggling as they tossed handfuls of snow at each other. Older siblings pulled their younger brothers and sisters on sleds that had undoubtedly been dug out of the dustiest corners of their sheds to make their pilgrimages to the best sledding hills before they got too crowded. Every so often someone would call out a “hullo” to Sam and Frodo, and Sam would wave back, and try not to think too hard about the fact that Mr. Frodo was still holding on to this arm. Instead, he forced himself to appreciate the remarkable way that the snowfall had transformed the once familiar countryside into a twinkling fairy land.
The snow still clung to the branches of the trees, hiding the bareness of winter in a lacy cloak. The sun, so recently emerged from her hiding, shone shyly through, and caught on the trees and rooftops, making them glow golden. And the sky was the palest, most delicate blue Sam had ever seen, peeping out here and there from behind its quickly dissipating shroud of clouds. Everything felt fresh and clean and almost too precious to be real. In fact, the whole scene looked like something out of the book of watercolors that Mr. Bilbo would sometimes get down and let him flip through after his lessons.
After they had walked in companiable silence for a while, Sam cleared his throat.
“Did you have a particular destination in mind Mr. Frodo, or is this more of a wandering sort of expedition?”
Frodo hummed. “I was thinking we would cut across to the far side of the mill pond. It’s nice and secluded over there, even during the summer.” He cut his eyes over to Sam. “Does that sound alright?”
Sam nodded. “Lead on sir.” He felt a private thrill at the words “secluded”, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was for the same reason that he had neglected to tell Frodo that his sister had invited them sledding with them. He just preferred to spend his time with Frodo alone, undisturbed by relations, or any comments that those relations might make. He wanted to keep him for himself.
A few minutes later, they reached the spot that Frodo had determined. They stopped beneath the cover of a great oak tree, its bare branches dividing up the sky into shattered pieces. The pond had frozen over into a murky grey.
“It looks solid enough to walk on” said Frodo as he idly tossed a snowball out into the middle, where it made a small spif and fell completely apart. “We could’ve gone ice skating.” Sam raised an eyebrow. Seeing his confusion, Frodo hurried to explain.
“I suppose you don’t know what it is, being raised in Hobbiton and all. To tell you the truth, it isn’t terribly common in Buckland either. But Merry’s mother – my Aunt Esme? She loved it. It’s a little like sledding, except the runners are on your feet. You put on these sort of booty things over your feet,” here holding up his foot, as if to demonstrate, “which have the blades on the bottom. And you can go gliding over the ice, and do tricks and jumps and the like. It’s great fun. I haven’t been in ages,” he said, looking a bit wistful.
Meanwhile, Sam had grown more and more incredulous throughout the course of Frodo’s explanation. No longer able to contain himself, he burst out.
“Well, I suppose it’s all well and good if the folk of Buckland want go careening all over ice and whatnot, but I’d sooner be dead before I go and do a fool thing like that! I’m telling you Mr. Frodo, I don’t trust deep bodies of water when they’re liquid, and I certainly don’t trust them anymore when they’re deadly cold and could break up on you at any minute. Imagine falling through!”
Frodo listened to Sam’s rant with an amused look on his face. “Falling through would be terrible,” he conceded. “I’m actually acquainted with a lass who fell through once. Or rather, her sister did.”
At this, Sam’s eyes went comically wide. “What happened?”
“If I remember correctly, she had promised that the next time she went ice skating with her friend, her sister was allowed to come along. But when the time did come, she and her sister had had a quarrel and were terribly cross with each other. I think her sister had destroyed or lost something of hers? I can’t recall. Regardless, my friend was so put out that she left her sister behind. But her sister followed her anyway, and subsequently didn’t hear the warning the lass’s friend gave her about the ice being thin in the middle.”
“It doesn’t take much imagination to guess at what happened next,” said Sam. “Was her sister alright in the end?”
“Thankfully yes. Luckily the other two hadn’t gone too far ahead and heard her cries for help. They managed to pull her out with a branch, and she suffered no more than a mild cold.”
Sam gave a harumph. “Well, I’m glad that there weren’t no great tragedy because of it. Drowning would be a horrible way to go, let alone in those freezing waters,” he shuddered. “Dreadful business, drowning.”
“Yes, it is,” said Frodo quietly.
Sam’s stomach dropped as he realized his mistake a moment too late.
“Oh, curse me for a half-wit! I didn’t even think--”
Frodo waved him off. “Please, don’t worry Sam. I’m completely fine. It was such a long time ago.” He sat down heavily into the snow. After a moment’s hesitation, Sam sat down next to him.
“I’m not upset Sam, truly I’m not,” said Frodo. “In fact, it’s rather refreshing to know that it’s not the first thing that comes to mind when you talk to me. I really can’t same for many of the other people around town.”
Despite Frodo’s reassurance, Sam still felt dreadful. “You oughtn’t pay no mind to the gossip Mr. Frodo. Them folk that spread those rumors about you and yours aren’t worth two cents in my books. Or in any sensible people’s books for that matter. Not that there’s many with much sense in these parts.”
Frodo huffed a laugh, and the bit of the dark cloud hanging over their conversation dissolved.
“Oh Sam. You really are just the most decent sort of hobbit. It’s why I vastly prefer your company over anyone else’s.”
This raised not one, but both of Sam’s eyebrows.
“I find that very hard to believe sir. You have some fine folk in your acquaintance.”
Frodo waved his hand dismissively.
“Name some of these so-called ‘fine folk’, and we’ll see how they stack up against you.”
“Well, there’s Mr. Bilbo for starters,” Sam pointed out.
“Come now, it’s common knowledge that my uncle is mad, whilst you are the picture of sanity. Next!”
Now it was Sam’s turn to laugh. “I suppose that’s so. How about Mr. Pippin?”
“He’s terrible at keeping secrets, and he borrows books then drops them in the bath. Next!”
“Mr. Merry?”
“Much too competitive. High maintenance. Smoked all my weed last time he came to visit. Next!”
“High maintenance is a bit rich coming from you sir,” said Sam, and then almost gasped at his daring. Frodo paid it no mind though, only sniggering a bit.
“Uh uh. While that very well may be the case, I’m not the one on the chopping block.”
“Fine then. Mr. Lotho.”
“I refuse to even dignify that with a response.”
This was a game that Sam was set up to lose. At this rate, Frodo would lambast the whole of the Westfarthing, and Buckland as well if it meant proving Sam’s quality. Despite the fact he wouldn’t mind losing (and would be highly flattered if he did), his sense of pride was too great to give in so easily.
“You have a skewed perception of me sir.”
“I do not!”
“You don’t know how badly I’ve behaved sometimes.”
Frodo scoffed. “Sam, behave badly? Samwise Gamgee? My Sam? Perhaps you’re confused. We must be talking about different Samwises!”
“Precisely my point sir! You don’t think I’d ever do something wrong, so you’re not a realistic or reliable witness of character!” replied Sam triumphantly. “Beggin’ your pardon,” he tacked on. It wouldn’t do to get carried away for sake of a playful argument.
“Fine then,” Frodo sniffed, also unwilling to give up. “Name some dishonorable crime you’ve committed, and I’ll reconsider my position.” Frodo laid back in the snow next to him, and closed his eyes, like he was prepared to wait for a long time for Sam to produce something.
Sam mulled over Frodo’s challenge for a moment. Of course, there were things he had done that he weren’t too proud of: intentionally provoking his sisters to vexation, sneaking a peep at Tom Cotton’s cards to win a hand, losing one of his father’s favorite caps after he was specifically told to pay close mind to where he laid it. But none of those seemed like something would hold much weight with Frodo. Of course, he could always tell him about…
Sam decided to take the plunge.
“Alright, I have something.”
“Let’s hear it then,” said Frodo, not bothering to open his eyes.
“I lied to you earlier today.”
“Really?” said Frodo, his eyes popping open in surprise.
“Well, it weren’t so much a lie as it was an obfuscation. Er, or rather, an exaggeration. That is to say--”
“Spit it out Sam!” cried Frodo, who was beginning to sound genuinely distressed.
He was in too deep to back out now. “Do you remember when I told you I had shoveled down at the Row and then it just occurred to me to come up to Bag End?”
Frodo nodded an affirmative, bewilderment clear on his face.
“That was the lie. I had planned all along to go up to Bag End. I shoveled the Row so I would have an excuse to come visit you. It wasn’t charitable exercise at all.”
“Sam!” Frodo exclaimed and sat up to fix him with a look.
“What?”
Sam sat up too, worried that Frodo’s estimation of him might have actually lessened due to his confession.
Frodo had crossed his arms. “You are aware that you are welcome at Bag End any time, right?”
“What?” Sam repeated, now more out of confusion than anxiety.
“I mean, you don’t have to go inventing excuses or work for yourself, you silly hobbit. You can pop by whenever the urge takes you.”
“Oh. Really?” replied Sam. It wasn’t like he was a stranger to Bag End – quite the opposite, in fact. But normally it was with a purpose, like when he worked in the garden and Mr. Frodo invited him in for tea, or when Mr. Bilbo was giving him his lessons. He had never been for a purely social call. He had never imagined to be something that he would be allowed to do. Though now that he didn’t see why it wouldn’t be allowed. He spent a decent amount of time with Frodo outside of Bag End, either going on their rambles or for a mug of ale at the Green Dragon. Why would anyone object to him spending time with him indoors?
“Yes, of course! Bilbo’s very fond of you, you know. He’d certainly welcome a visit from you far more than some of the strait-laced busybodies we normally get.”
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam cried, half shocked and half delighted to hear Frodo continue to besmirch his peers and relatives, and on Sam’s behalf no less.
“I’m sorry Sam, but it’s the truth,” said Frodo. “And besides, I’m…” he hesitated, suddenly incredibly interested in the knit pattern of his mittens. “Well, that is to say…I’m very…fond. Very fond of you as well.”
Sam felt a curious tightening in his chest at Frodo’s words, a sort of quivering, like the rapid heartbeat of some prey animal. His face flushed despite the frosty air, and he seemed incapable of breaking his eyes away from the where the edge of his gloved pinky barely brushed against the side of Frodo’s thigh. Distantly, he registered that Frodo was trembling, almost imperceptibly. Perhaps it was from the cold. But perhaps…
Frodo gave a nervous, breathy chuckle, and the spell was broken.
“As you can see Sam, my point stands firm as ever,” he said, finally looking up from his hands and back towards Sam. Sam met his gaze and was rewarded with a smug look.
“Is that so, sir?” replied Sam, half laughing as well.
“Indeed it is. In which case, what I require from you is a declaration in writing stating, ‘Frodo was right and I was wrong’. And furthermore –”
Frodo never got to finish his sentence, for while he was talking Sam had gathered up a heap of snow, grabbed the collar of Frodo’s fine new coat, and shoved the handful down his back. Frodo gave an indignant squawk, twisting himself this way and that, trying to rid himself of the snow. Meanwhile, Sam had leapt to his feet, and was making a mad dash back towards the road, shouting over his shoulder, “How about now sir?”
“Blast you Samwise Gamgee!” shouted Frodo, jumping up as well and charging after Sam, stooping every so often to grab handfuls of snow to hurl after Sam’s retreating figure. Sam laughed wildly as one struck him in the small of his back and laughed even harder as the snowball he returned caught Frodo square in the face.
They continued in this manner all the way back up to the Hill, where Sam stopped, breathless, outside Bag End’s gate. Frodo caught up to him a few moments later, put his hands on his knees and panted, “Someday Sam…someday I will be revenged. And it will be swift…and terrible.”
“I don’t doubt it sir,” Sam grinned.
“You’ll never see it coming.”
“I would think not.”
Frodo straightened, and they considered each other. Both had snow in their hair and all over the outside of their clothes, not to mention a the good deal on the inside as well. The wind had picked up, and Frodo began to shiver. Sam started to say something, anything, when –
“Frodo!” Bilbo’s voice carried from the doorway where he stood, arms akimbo.
“Come here out of the cold! You look soaked to the bone, you foolish boy,” Bilbo tutted. “Gotten you into mischief, hasn’t he Master Samwise?”
Sam shook his head vehemently. “Oh no, Mister Bilbo. Quite the opposite, actually.”
Bilbo looked skeptical. “If you say so my lad.” Frodo rolled his eyes and Sam didn’t even try to contain his laugh.
“Any time now will do Frodo. I have tea on the table,” Bilbo scolded, retreating into the smial once again.
Frodo went to open the gate, but then paused, and looked at Sam expectantly. Sam wondered for a moment what he wanted him to say. Then it dawned on him, and he cracked a sheepish grin.
“Pardon me sir, but I have it on good authority from a reputable source that the master of this smial would be glad to have me for tea on any occasion. Do you think he would welcome me today?”
In response, Frodo opened the gate wider, and made a sweeping gesture. “After you, my good sir.”
Side by side, Frodo and Sam walked up the walkway to the smial, and Sam realized he did not mind at all that he had not been the one to shovel it.