Archive of Our Own

The sun peaks through closed curtains. It must be near afternoon now, as Frodo's stomach feels ever empty. He has done nothing today but drift in and out of consciousness, where he’d be awakened by a ravaging tickle in his throat, throwing him into a coughing fit. The pain of it all strikes his chest, right where the Morgul blade wounded him. Frodo's nightshirt sticks to his skin, and the smell of unbathed hobbit purges his room.

The feeling of being sick takes Frodo back to his trek to Mordor. Being unhealthy and gloomy, only being held up by the care of Samwise.
If Samwise were to see him like this–lazy, sticky, and coughing up phlegm ever so often. How Frodo would hate that. Not only does he feel useless like this, but his heart would break if he were to make his friend sick as well. Dear Sam, please stick to your gardens, don’t wander in here I beg. He thinks.

But as if the world is out to get him as it reads his thoughts, he hears a knock at his door. Frodo opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. 

Luckily, Samwise enters of his own accord. Frodo’s eyes flicker up to stick onto Sam, and upon his first glance, Sam's eyes widen at the sight he sees. Great, he must think I look awful.

“Mr. Frodo!” He rushes over and grabs onto Frodo’s clammy hand. “You look… unwell.”

Frodo's heart pangs, he feels it tighten in his chest.

I look awful. You can say it Sam.

“I don’t feel well, Sam dear.” Frodo attempts a smile, but is interrupted by an echoing cough.

“Mr. Frodo… I came here since you hadn’t come out to see me. I was worried. Seems I had a right to be.” Sam rubs circles into Frodo's palms. Frodo's eyelids drag his eyes down where they avert to his lap. “Oh Sam, don’t worry about me please. I have worried you enough in your lifetime.” He could almost say his eyes were welling up, but he wouldn’t dare admit it. 

“Nonsense! I want to care for you Frodo, now… have you eaten today?” Sam asks.

Frodo wearily shakes his head. “I…” Frodo struggles to admit his words. “I haven’t really left my bed.”

He must think I am useless. That I can’t manage anything.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo… I will get you something. Some tea as well.” Sam gets up to move but his arm is caught by Frodo. “Sam, I can’t ask you to do this. I can… I should care for myself.” Frodo says, and sits up to usher himself out of his bed. Broad hands gently push into his chest, carefully lying him back down into bed.

“No, I ain’t letting you do anything today, Mr. Frodo. I want you to rest ‘ere.” Sam runs his hands through Frodo's dark, curled hair. 

He presses the back of his hand into Frodo's forehead. “You’re mighty hot, sir. I'll get something cool for you as well.” Sam stands up beside Frodo's bed.

“Now, for that tea.” Sam smiles and leaves the room.

Sam, the sweetest hobbit Frodo could ask for. It makes him feel utterly guilty to have Sam care for him time and time again.

Even before their quest, Sam had always been so kind to him, going above and beyond as a gardener and friend. After the ring, their relationship grew stronger and stronger. Frodo can barely consider him just friend.

Frodo loves Sam, he knows that Sam loves him, but they probably love each other differently. Frodo would spend eternity with Sam if he had the choice, and yet, who would want to spend eternity with Frodo?

Coming back from Mount Doom, Sam came back stronger, but Frodo is weaker. He breaks more easily, nightmares plague his sleep, his mind is full of evil, and something as small as sickness leaves Frodo bedridden. 

Whilst Sam, 

Sam…

He has returned to The Shire, taken care of Bag End, of Frodo, and of his family. Sam keeps an eye out for all in Hobbiton, ensuring everyone's safety. Frodo wouldn’t be surprised if he is mayor one day. Sam has come back and worked harder than ever before. He has returned with a purpose in life that he still aims to fulfill. 

Frodo wonders if he lost his purpose with the ring.

Sam walks back in, bringing Frodo out of his mind. He has a tray of food, tea, and a makeshift ice pack. His afternoon tea consists of orange slices, biscuits, an assortment of picked berries, and a slice of the apple pie they made together the other day. All paired with a herbal tea.

It looks delicious. Samwise knows exactly what Frodo needs to feel better. It could almost frustrate him, how Sam can read his needs, but a skill like that shouldn’t be resented. All I need now is a good book to read. Frodo chuckles to himself.

“Here you go Mr. Frodo.” Sam lays the tray across his lap where Frodo now sits up. “Thank you, my dear Sam, I have no idea what I would do without you.” Frodo places the ice pack across his forehead, blessing the sweaty, heated skin. 

Sam's cheeks tint red and he waves his hand in the air. “Oh it’s nothing Mr. Frodo.” He smiles.

Frodo picks at the berries on his plate, each one boosting his mood as they enter his mouth. “These are delicious, Sam.” He praises, Sam hums in return.

“Why not I grab you a book to read, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asks. Frodo peers up at him. 

…Can Sam read my mind? Can he… Has he gained the powers of the elves?

 “That would be lovely Sam.”

If you hear this Sam… take an orange slice for yourself.

Sam, shockingly, does not take an orange slice. Rather, he leaves the room to return with a book. Of course, Sam can’t read minds, but it is a funny thought. It would explain how he knows Frodo so well.

Sam returns with a book that has a selection of short stories compiled into its bindings. Noticeably, it is a book he and Frodo have read together. A smile stretches to Frodo's cheeks. Sam’s cheeks are flushed red, he shifts awkwardly and kicks at his foot. “I thought… well, I saw this book sir, and I thought we could read it together again.”

A rose blooms in Frodo's heart. Samwise is just like that, kind and offering, effortlessly loving. Frodo would love nothing more, and yet Sam stands like he is about to be kicked out and damned never to return.

Oh Samwise. My dear Sam.

“Yes, of course Sam. Though, I wouldn’t want to get you sick.” Frodo takes a sip of his warm tea. Sam’s face lights up. “I don’t mind Mr. Frodo.”

He shuffles towards Frodo’s bed, lying himself on top of the blankets. He flicks through the pages of the book and lands on a sweet story of the elves. Frodo shifts closer into Sam's side.

Together, they skim through parchment pages. They have a mutual understanding that Frodo is the quicker reader, so Sam is in charge of flipping the pages when he is done.

Frodo takes the time waiting for the next page to continue snacking on his afternoon tea, whilst sneaking glimpses of Sam for him to admire. Sam’s brow is slightly furrowed, focusing on the words in front of him. The story of the elves includes some Sindarin, and Sam is trying his best to recall his teachings from Master Bilbo and Frodo. Frodo finds it endearing how his face scrunches up at a particularly hard word, and how it dawns on his face when he remembers its meaning.

Somewhere along the way, Frodo's eyes start to drift shut, only reopening when he hears the shift of the paper turning. By the time his food and story is finished, Frodo's head has fallen to Sam's shoulder, where he has succumbed to sleep.

“Rest up Mr. Frodo.” A voice echoes in Frodo's mind. He smiles.

-

When Frodo wakes, there is no Sam next to him, but his presence lingers in the crumple of his blankets and the warm feeling in his heart. 

Frodo peers over to see the book now resting on his nightstand, and his tray put away. It must have only been a small nap, as the sun still shines outside. Frodo wonders if Sam is still at Bag End.

I doubt it. Sam has much better things to tend to. His heart empties.

Frodo thinks about how awful he felt all day, and how Sam managed to lift him to a good mood. 

Useless hobbit. Frodo tells himself.

He thinks of the state Sam must have found him. Sweaty, tired, hopeless. Frodo feels guilt pang through his body. Both he and Sam walked to Mordor, yet Frodo has come back so broken and doomed that he must be looked after. Him being sick doesn't even match how he felt with the ring, and yet, with nothing else he needs to fight for, what point is there for trying?

Maybe it would have been better if Frodo didn’t make it after Mount Doom. A waste of space.

A twig snap outside diverts Frodo’s attention. He sees the shadow of his friend through curtains. He is still here.

Frodo shakes his head. Although his bed is comfortable, Frodo decides he will venture out of his room, as staying inside all day is doing something to his mental.

He pushes himself out of bed, wraps himself in his dressing gown, and pads his feet out to Bag End’s gardens.

“Mr. Frodo! You’re awake!” Sam holds pruning shears in his hands. “Afternoon. I was just out here pruning the rose bushes.” He continues.

“Afternoon Sam. I came out here for some air. I don’t think staying inside all day is good for my health.” Frodo sits down in the lush grass of the Garden. Sam's garden, he would say. Frodo just has the right to gaze upon it. 

“Aye, I’d think so too.”

Come sit next to me Sam. Frodo pleads in his mind. He misses the warmth of Sam from when he fell asleep. It was healing resting his head upon Sam's shoulder, pressed into his side. Sam radiates a brightness that no other hobbit manages. Frodo wonders if he embodies the light of Eärendil‘s star.

Frodo watches Sam’s thinking face. It is funny; he can tell exactly when Sam is lost in thought or conjuring no thoughts at all. Finally, Sam snaps back into the moment. “Mind if I sit?” He asks. Frodo nods his head. It’s all I ever want.

And so Sam sits. He stretches his legs out with a hearty sigh and wiggles his toes, making Frodo giggle. A smile stretches across Sam's face. “What’s so funny sir?” He pesters. “Oh nothing, just you my Sam.” Frodo leans his head onto Sams’s shoulder again. “You think I’m funny?” Sam is taken aback, in a jester's way. “What is it, my face?” He continues, lightly jabbing into Frodo's side.

“No! That’s not what I meant! You just make me laugh!” He defends with a giggle. “Oh, so I’m laughing matter?” Sam puts on a fake grumpy face and fists his hands on his hips. Frodo pushes Sam’s chest. “You know that's not what I meant!” The force shoves the hobbit backwards–Frodo may have pushed a little too hard. Sam gasps at Frodo acting ’offended’, before, without warning (well, his push should’ve been the warning), Frodo is lightly tackled to the ground. It doesn’t take much to do so, as Frodo accepts his fate and tumbles into the dirt. Their laugh fills the air, and both their smiles reach from cheek to cheek.

Rudley, Frodo is interrupted by a coughing fit. That’s right, he is sick.

Frodo ducks his face into his elbow to avoid coughing into Sam's face, and the larger hobbit carefully backs off his friend.

“Mr. Frodo! Are you alright?” One of Sam's hands lands on Frodo's chest. Any other time this would cause Frodo's heart to skip a beat, but he is distracted by the awful tickle in his throat. “I’m-” Another cough, “I’m okay Sam.”

Slowly, Frodo sits back up and hugs his knees. His gaze drops to the ground and he chews on the inside of his cheek. “Sorry Mr. Frodo.” Sam says, Frodo's blue eyes glimmer up at Sam's.

“No! It isn’t your fault Sam. Just this sickness.”

Sam doesn’t reply, but leans in and places his hand to the small of Frodo's back. Frodo feels Sam staring at him. He turns his head to look back. Their eyes meet, and heat rises to Frodo's cheeks. Their noses nearly brush, and Frodo could count the faint freckles that dot Sam's skin. 

This is very close. Frodo thinks.

Sam’s eyes scan Frodo's face. “Gosh… I dirtied you up, didn't I, Mr. Frodo?” He points out. “Let me run you a bath; it’ll probably be good for your sickness as well.”

Sam stands and offers his hand for Frodo to help him up. Though, as they walk back to Bag End, neither lets go.

Hot water fills the tub, steaming up the room inside. Frodo leans against the wall, patiently waiting for the bath to fill. He closes his eyes and listens to the rush of water. Once it’s full Sam steps out of the room to allow Frodo his privacy.

Frodo dips his fingers into the bath, the heat radiates through Frodo's body. He can smell the oils Sam had put in. How caring. A good hobbit you are Sam. A conclusion Frodo makes time and time again.

The hobbit sinks into the heated water, losing senses in his body. His eyes flutter shut as he submerges most of his body into the warmth. He is very thankful to have a nice deep bath (deep for a hobbit at least) that can fit his whole body. Frodo's eyes open and peer at his sick body. There his eyes land on the numerous scars on his body. On his chest, his neck, and his lost finger. They burn. He is reminded of the attack on his back. Shelob's scar always stings when he is in water.

Frodo’s brow furrows. He has never been the type to care for his looks. He grooms himself well and dresses clean like a gentle hobbit, but never did he care if a bad hair day turns around.

Now, however, Frodo can’t help but spite the state of his body.

It is sad, he knows it is sad. Numerous people tell him to be proud of his scars, ‘they show a journey,’ they say. ‘A story to tell’. Yet, the only time Frodo can muster the courage to tell his story is when it is written down in the red book. His scars are just reminders of the evil he faced, the sting and burden he carried.

They have burnt his body. They stick out like a sore, it is unavoidable to the eye. Sometimes, when he wears his collar too low, he can see wee hobbits staring at him. They must wonder what kind of freak would have scars like that. Like this.

He brushes his fingertips along his neckline. There he is reminded of his missing one. He is reminded how he failed, right at the end. He succumbed to the ring. It makes Frodo feel sick thinking about it. A tear sheds down his cheek. I cry now. I always cry.

Frodo notes the clear lack of Samwise.

I am so useless without him.

I can’t do anything. I leech onto him. I am a parasite, aren't I?

Frodo's eyes spill and his nose snuffles. He brings his legs up to his chest and hugs them.

Sam, you are too good to me. He ducks his head between his knees and sniffles more. Quiet gasps escape his mouth. I hope you cannot hear me. His mind says, though Frodo thinks for a second and crumbles.

No.

I hope you do hear me.

And guilty he is. He would much rather have Sam by his side stroking his back than him wallowing in his own sadness. Sam brings life back into him, something no one else could. What is Frodo to do when the hobbit he loves is at his fingertips, willing to drop anything for him. His Sam. His brave, strong, Sam.

Frodo Hiccups through his tears. Oh Sam…

A knock on the door. “Mr. Frodo? Are you alright?” Sam's voice asks. Frodo tries to gain his composure to reply. “Y- yes, Sam…” His voice shakes. His nose sniffs on instinct, alluding more to his breakdown. Damn me.

“I don’t believe it.”

Which he has a right not to. He can clearly hear Frodo's cries through the door. The bathing hobbit goes to reply, but his voice breaks and he cannot utter much.

“Frodo… May I come in?”

A beat of silence.

How does Frodo even reply? He can barely utter words to begin with. He wants Sam to be there for him, but he cannot even accept his own body. Let alone the thought of Sam seeing it himself. Everything that is wrong with it on display, Frodo's heart fills with fear. His skin crawls, he urges to rip it off. His fingernails dig into his shoulders–he hates how he can only feel nine. Frodo must be sobbing now. An embarrassment of a hobbit you are.

Sam opens the door. Slowly, gently. “Frodo…”

Frodo does not dare look up. He feels the tears and snot run down his face. I must look pathetic.

“Frodo, oh dear Frodo…” Sam clambers to his knees and holds onto Frodo's hand. He rubs small circles into his knuckles, and he whispers sweet affirmations to his friend. Frodo's inward breath shudders and his fingers tremble. He tries to take a deep breath, but it breaks into a cry.

Sam reaches over and lands a hand on Frodo's back. He hushes into his ear and tells him everything will be okay. “I'm here for you Frodo.”

The shaking hobbit slowly calms with the help of his friend. He leans closer to the edge of the bath, where Sam can wrap his arm around his shoulders. Frodo's legs curl tight into his chest and he holds onto them with all his might. He manages to look up at Sam.

“I am… a mess.” Frodo blandly states. A tear rolls down his cheek once more. “No… No, Mr. Frodo, you ain't no mess.”

“But I am Sam. I can't manage myself. I have come back from this quest weaker than ever.”

“Nonsense! That's utter nonsense Frodo!” Sam argues.

Frodo's tired eyes look into Sam's. They are full of worry and desperation. Frodo pushes his mouth to a line and bites inside his cheek.

“Mr. Frodo, you have got to be the strongest I know. You bore what no one else could. And you fought, for good and for life.” Sam massages Frodo's shoulder, which calms his senses.

“You being here shows me you are strong, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo stares at Sam and hums. “You are very strong, my dear Sam.” He says. “And brave. And loyal. I'd say I'm the luckiest hobbit in Middle-earth to have you as a friend.”

Sam smiles and his cheeks flush rose. “Thank you, Mr. Frodo. I can say the same for you.”

Teary eyes divert Sam's gaze. Frodo breaks into a small coughing fit. Somber washes over him. “I'm sorry Sam. I just hate being sick. I feel useless, and I do feel weak. And to look at my body… being back in The Shire like once was, but now it's broken and burnt. It hurts to see.” Frodo stares down at his hands, and Sam takes hold of them.

“Don't be sorry Mr. Frodo. It's not your fault you're sick. None of this is your fault.” Sam thinks of Frodo's scars. “You are quite beautiful Mr. Frodo. With your scars and all.”

The hobbit looks up at Sam and sees his eyes gliding across his chest. He holds a faint smile. “No need to lie Sam.”

“But it's true Mr. Frodo! You have such beauty like the elves. You always have. Your scars just add more to you. More for me to admire...”

“Sam…” His brows furrow, Frodo can’t believe him.

“I speak my truth, Mr. Frodo.”

They lock eyes and heat rises into Frodo's cheeks. A small smile creeps onto his face. Sam admires me? He must like his view… He giggles at the thought. Though he does feel much more naked than he did before.

“Thank you, Sam.”

Frodo could see red rushing to Sam's face. Why, he could mess with him like this.

He chews his cheek.

“And what of me should you admire right now?” Frodo blurts out.

Sam's face burns and he stumbles upon nonsense words. Frodo wants to crawl into a cave and rot like Smeagol. Oh my. Frodo you fool. Why would you say tha-

“I like your collarbones, sir.” 

Frodo blinks.

…oh?

“Is that so?” Frodo tests. Sam nods.

“They- they stand out sir. Well, may I be honest, they can distract me. When you have your shirt collar unbuttoned and all.” Sam looks away and scratches his hand behind his head.

Frodo can only gulp.

“And well, your eyes are… magical? Like they could entrance someone if you tried.”

Frodo closes his eyes. His heart hammers in his chest. Should he… return the favour per se? Tell Sam all the wondrous things Frodo admires of him? But he could talk for days about that.

“May I be… improper?” Sam asks.

“Sam…”

Frodo thinks his heart is trying to escape out of his throat. His mind races to think what ‘improper’ could include. Sam waits for an answer. Frodo gains the courage to nod.

“Your waist- I find myself staring at its… curve. I just find myself wanting to hold it. Slot into your side and…” Sam runs his fingers through his hair. “Oh fool, what am I saying.”

“Sam I-”

“I'm sorry Mr. Frodo! I shouldn't be saying these things about you!” Sam twiddles his fingers and darts his eyes away from Frodo. Blue eyes stay locked onto the other hobbit.

“Sam-”

“It is highly inappropriate as a friend and a worker to… to desire like that!”

“Sam!”

“And for me to say to you! You're a gentle hobbit! And my best friend!" Sam spirals and spirals into a pit of apologies.

“Sam it is quite alright!” Frodo finally gets in. He rests his watered hand on Sam's shoulder. “I could say the same about you.” he admits.

Both eyes dart to meet each other. The air feels thick, the steam of the bath and the tension between them. Each blink can be heard. Frodo takes a deep breath in. “I’d also add your chest. As in something I admire. And your arms… Your hair, your nose…” Frodo pauses, asking himself whether he should say his next thought. Sam answers for him, as Frodo notices Sam's eyes flicker down to his mouth.

“... Your lips.” Frodo admits.

Sam stares wide-eyed at the older hobbit, occasionally darting his gaze to his lips. His face burns red, Frodo could almost see steam emitting from his head.

“They’re all very… distracting, my dear Sam.” He doubles down. It is much too far to take anything back now. Don’t back down on me now, Sam Gamgee.

In the silence that lies between them, Sam whispers a reply.

“I’d say the same to you, Mr. Frodo.”

A shy smile appears on Sam's face. The beating of the two hobbits’ hearts fill the room. Frodo lifts his hand to Sam's face, the hobbit leans into the touch, closing his eyes. Sam’s fingers hold onto the edge of the bath–Frodo can sense Sam’s fear of touching his gentle hobbit. He places his other hand onto Sam’s, running his fingers along the back of it.

“Sam, may I…?” He drifts off. Sam's eyes meet his, and the hobbits begin to lean in. Suddenly Frodo interrupts. “Wait! I wouldn’t want to get you sick!”

“Mr. Frodo… I vastly do not care.”

Frodo smiles, and leans back in. 

The kiss is only a mere second. A peck if you will. Though it does not take long for the hobbits to lock lips once again, pouring their hearts into one another. They shift closer to each other. Sam's hands lift to comb through Frodo's damp hair, thus reminding them of the bath wall that separates them. If only I could drag you in with me. Frodo smiles to himself. Sam promptly smiles back, and their teeth clash at their shared grin.

Frodo pulls away, resting his forehead against Sam’s. “Maybe it is time I hop out.” He giggles. Sam nods and awkwardly shuffles out of the washroom.

The hobbit meets Sam outside, now in his robe. Sam quickly walks forward to crash his lips into Frodo's. He grabs hold of the smaller hobbit's waist, just as he said. Frodo melts against Sam, and his hands search to intertwine with blonde curls. Frodo tilts his head to deepen their kiss, managing a low sound from Sam's throat. The noise pushes Frodo deeper, and he brushes his tongue against Sam's soft lips.

Their mouths and bodies entangle into one. Sam lightly presses Frodo into the walls of Bag End, gaining a soft moan from him. The larger hobbit's knees shake, only just managing to hold himself up. Frodo's hands travel down Sam's large back, feeling the curves of thick muscle and broad shoulders. I can admire all of you now, admire how you feel, how you touch, how you smell.

Sam trickles small kisses towards Frodo's neck, brushing his lips very softly against the gentle skin. Here, Frodo can smell the garden through his hair. I could get used to this. Sam's neck kisses grow exceedingly harder, which makes Frodo groan. Before he knew it, Sam was kissing love bites into the gentle hobbit's neck and collarbone. “As you desire…” Frodo whimpers, which makes Sam gasp.

Sam's lips return to Frodo's for one final long kiss. Sam leans his forehead against Frodo's. They stay that wait for what could feel like forever. Neither hobbit minds, as it’s peaceful and intimate.

Frodo breaks the silence. “Why… that was quite lovely, my dear Sam.” He strokes the back of Sam's neck.

“Indeed, sir.” Sam breaths heavy as if he just finished a long run.

“I hope this becomes… common activities… between us.” Frodo blushes.

“Aye… indeed sir.”

Sam looks behind him towards a window, quickly noting the night sky beyond it. “Goodness! I’m sorry Mr. Frodo! I should be heading back home.”

"Don't worry Sam! Let me walk you to the door.”

Frodo takes Sam's hand and leads him through the halls of Bag End. Frodo notices how Sam must have lit up the candles during his alone time in the washroom. The hobbit you are Samwise.

At the door Sam gathers his bearings, patting down his clothes and checking pockets. They stand in the open of the doorway. “Goodnight Mr. Frodo.” Sam holds onto Frodo's soft hands. “Goodnight, Sam dear.” Frodo smiles. Sam turns and walks away, which immediately fills Frodo with loneliness. I wish you mustn't leave.

Shortly, as if he realized he forgot something, Sam pivots on his foot. He returns quickly to give Frodo a mighty hug. He ends the embrace with a quick ‘goodbye’ kiss and smile, before disappearing down the hill into the night.

Frodo thinks again how Sam may hear his thoughts.

I love you, my dearest, Samwise Gamgee.