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Frodo doesn’t think anything of the flowers at first. It’s hardly a strange thing for there to be flowers in a hobbit hole, after all. He doesn’t think too hard about the little treats that appear on the dining room table, either; food is also a very common thing in hobbit holes.
He does notice when he finds a trio of red roses on his desk. He knows perfectly well he didn’t have a vase there yesterday. They’re very lovely roses, though, and the vase is a pretty thing for all its simplicity. Frodo sets the vase on the windowsill where he won’t knock it over by accident and spends the morning smiling every time a bit of breeze wafts the scent of the roses through the room.
When he wanders into the kitchen to see what’s for lunch, he finds a sweetheart tart sitting on the counter, still steaming: red berries and white pastry, and a heart cut into the top.
Sam comes bustling in from the garden, apron front made into a basket to hold ripe tomatoes and zucchini. “Did Rosie leave this for you, Sam?” Frodo asks.
“No, Mister Frodo,” Sam says, shaking his head firmly. “I was told it was for you.”
“Well, that’s awfully nice of someone,” Frodo says. “Will you split it with me?”
“If you like, Mister Frodo,” Sam says, turning away to unload the vegetables onto the counter. Frodo thinks the back of Sam’s neck might be a little red, but that might just be from having been outside in the garden all morning.
Frodo would assume the tart was a bit of an aberration, but there’s a berry pie waiting in the kitchen the next day, beside a vase of magnificent chrysanthemums. Frodo eyes them thoughtfully until Sam comes in with the morning’s harvest from the gardens.
“Is someone bringing me courting gifts, Sam?”
“Yes, Mister Frodo,” Sam says, and there’s definitely a slight flush rising in his cheeks, more than could be excused by the early-summer sun.
“And you’re letting them?” Frodo asks, grinning. He happens to have overheard Sam chasing off a few importunate hobbits who were a little more interested in the rumored wealth Frodo inherited from Bilbo than in Frodo himself.
Sam definitely blushes. “Yes, Mister Frodo.”
“Well, alright then,” Frodo says. “Come and share this pie with me, won’t you?”
*
There’s another pie the next day - rabbit, this time, spiced just the way Frodo likes it best. Rosie is bustling about in the kitchen, putting away the day’s shopping; Frodo tries to help, and is immediately shooed over to the table. “Don’t you fret yourself, Mister Frodo, I’ve everything under control.”
“I know you do,” Frodo says, laughing. “You always do. But I’d like to help if I can.”
“You can shell peas, then,” Rosie says, putting a bowl of them on the table beside the pie, and Frodo obediently sets to work. “Our Sam’s off helping his Gaffer with a bit of fencing that fell over,” she tells him as she puts cheese and milk and eggs in the cold room. “He said to tell you he’s sorry to miss lunch, but he doesn’t want his Gaffer throwing out his back.”
“Of course he ought to help Gaffer,” Frodo says at once. “Won’t you take lunch with me, then, Rosie? I don’t much care to eat alone. And if this pie is anything like yesterday’s, it’s quite marvelous.”
“Well now, I’d be honored,” Rosie says, beaming at him. She settles across from him at the table, and they work together to shell the rest of the peas before she gets up to grab plates and forks and a knife to cut the pie. “Sam says your book is coming along well.”
“I hope so,” Frodo says. “Would you like to read it, when it’s done?”
“Druther have you read it to me,” Rosie admits. “I’ve never been good at sitting still and reading, but having a story read out while I’m doing the mending or cooking or suchlike - I like that.”
Frodo takes a moment to imagine sitting by the fire on a winter’s night, reading from a book of tales, while Rosie sews and Sam prepares a tray for midnight snacks, and finds it a very pleasant image indeed.
He doesn’t know Rosie as well as he does Sam - he doesn’t know anyone as well as he does Sam - but he knows she’s kind and level-headed and terrifyingly competent, and she seems to be delighted to look after Frodo as much as Sam does. It sometimes feels like he’s got a pair of mother hens, and him the single chick. It’s…rather nice, though, being looked after.
They split the pie between them, and it’s as good as the day before’s was.
*
It keeps happening. There’s a different pie or tart - sweet or savory, it varies - and a bunch of flowers on the kitchen table every lunchtime. Frodo shares the baked goods with Sam and Rosie, and admires the flowers and wonders who in the world has managed to convince Sam to let them give Frodo courting gifts. Sam is so very protective - Frodo can’t imagine he’d allow just anyone to do so. Which means that it must be someone who Sam trusts, and also who Sam thinks Frodo will like, once he finds out who they are.
Which…narrows the field a lot, come to think of it, Frodo muses between bites of a very good beef pie. The number of people Sam actually trusts these days is…well, Frodo himself, and Merry, and Pippin, and Rosie. And Merry and Pippin, so far as Frodo knows, aren’t currently interested in courting anyone, but Rosie is with Sam -
Rosie, who is known even among hobbits as being a superlative baker, is with Sam, who is one of the finest gardeners among a people known for their horticultural talents -
Sam, who Frodo trusts with everything he is, and Rosie, of whom Frodo is very fond -
“Sam,” Frodo says slowly, “are these gifts from you and Rosie?”
Sam goes brick red. “I know it’s not properly our place, Mister Frodo,” he says awkwardly.
“To the Valar’s deepest hells with that,” Frodo says, startling Sam badly by the look of it. “Who has a better right than my Sam, who stood beside me even at Mount Doom?”
“Well,” Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Rosie said she thought you feel like that.”
Frodo reaches across the table to take Sam’s other hand. “Tell Rosie she ought to come up for supper,” he says quietly. “I think I’d like to thank the baker in person for her pies. But you already know I love your flowers, Sam.”
Sam gives him a shy little grin and turns his hand over to lace their fingers together. “I do know that, Mister Frodo.”
“I think it’d better be just Frodo, all things considered,” Frodo says thoughtfully. “If you’re courting me.”
Sam blushes harder. “Just as you say,” he agrees. “Frodo.”
Frodo grins. “Sam,” he says quietly, filled with a sort of bubbling happiness, like an overflowing brook. “My Sam.” And his Rosie, too, if all goes well.
That will be nice. Bag End’s too large for one hobbit. It would be good to have a few more people sharing the smial with him. These specific people.
His Sam, and his Rosie.
Yes. That will be very nice indeed.