Work Text:
Golden light pours into the study of Bag End as Frodo works at his desk. In front of him is a sheaf of papers. At his side is a thick tome with covers of gold-decorated brown leather. The scratching of his quill has filled the study for some hours now, and continues to do so, unabated, until he hears the soft padding of footsteps in the hallway. Slightly louder is the occasional clink of a teacup in its saucer.
The quill stops.
The noise has given Frodo ample warning. By the time his faithful Sam enters the study with a cup of tea for his master, Frodo is sitting sedately as ever, quill scratching away. The brown book and the sheaf of papers are long gone, instead of being hastily stuffed away at Sam’s entry. The desk is covered with only its usual clutter of maps, papers from Bilbo’s memoir, and drafts of Frodo’s own accounts of their journeys.
Sam sets the teacup down a safe distance from the papers. Frodo puts aside his quill with a murmured thank you and takes a sip. Perfectly brewed green tea, with no milk, a dash of honey, and just the right amount of mint for his taste.
“What’s that there that you’re workin’ on, Mr. Frodo?”
Frodo was prepared for this question, and the teacup does not rattle against the saucer in his hands. He says nothing, disguising his silence with another sip and sliding over a sheet of paper.
He has learned over the past few years how to hide things from Sam, but he knows that his voice will give him away if he tries to speak a lie aloud. It is best to let his actions speak for him and avoid doing anything that will give Sam cause to investigate further.
Sam leans forward to read the paper, one hand resting on the back of Frodo’s chair. It’s an account of the day that Sam had cooked him a rabbit stew. In truth, Frodo has not worked on the Red Book for several days, and he has long finished their doings in Ithilien. When he had last set aside his memoir, he had reached the point where they were on the steps of Cirith Ungol. But Sam’s face and the sunlight streaming in through the window are both bright, so Frodo has reached for the memory of another bright day.
Sam reads the paper out loud, offering additions here and there that Frodo ought to make. Frodo listens with half an ear, his attention more on the cadence of Sam’s voice and the red-gold glints that the afternoon sun brings out in his sandy curls. Finally Frodo says, “You ought to read through it and add your own notes.”
He trusts his voice on this one because what he says is true. He likes the idea of his manuscript being revised and edited by Sam’s hand. His own firm flowing script, annotated by Sam’s eager scrawls between the lines and in the margins.
Sam opens his mouth, no doubt to protest that he has nothing of value to add to the Red Book, but Frodo gives him a look, and Sam closes it. Becoming a husband, father, and hero of the Shire has done wonders for Sam’s estimation of his own worth, but his first instinct is still self-deprecation, despite Frodo and Rosie’s best efforts. The damage his Gaffer did runs deep.
Frodo reaches a hand out to tug Sam closer. He obeys. His arms wrap around Frodo, and his chin comes to rest in his master’s dark curls. Frodo settles back against Sam’s chest, luxuriating in the strength of his embrace and the warmth of his hands interlocking with his own. He expects Sam to tut over the state of his nails, bitten down and ink-stained, but Sam merely massages away the cramps from hours of writing and rubs at the nub where the finger once was.
Sam drops a kiss on his crown. He trails his lips along the curve of Frodo’s skull, licking the shell of his ear and nosing at the sensitive hollow beneath. Frodo leans his head and tugs his collar down to grant Sam better access. He can feel Sam smiling into his neck as he delights in all the newly available skin. Sam kisses along the length of his clavicle, paying special attention to the scar tissue left by the Ring, before making his way up Frodo’s jaw and sucking on the cleft in his chin while avoiding his lips. A move that he knows full well drives his master to distraction.
Frodo tilts his head to catch Sam’s lips with his own, but Sam pulls away. Frodo makes a small hmm of confusion, but Sam merely pulls his collar back up. “I promised I’d stop by Mari and Tom’s before dark, and it’s past teatime. I’d best be gettin’ on.”
Sam makes to leave, then stops, as though he can feel Frodo’s longing gaze behind him. He turns around. “But I do mean to finish what we started, and we will. Tonight in our room — if you make an appearance at the dinner table for once, instead of hiding away in your study. You’ve not come down to supper with the rest of the family in almost a fortnight.”
And here he fixes Frodo with a look of his own. Frodo blinks. He has taken to having meals in his study, but he hadn’t realized it had gotten to the point where Sam feels the need to bribe him with physical temptation. He must cover his tracks better. Sam has keen instincts.
Frodo nods his assent. Sam nods back and bends down to give him the proper kiss he had denied him before. It’s a delightfully long one, with tongue and teeth, and it’s Frodo who pulls away and shoos Sam out of his study with a chuckle, lest he become so late as to miss meeting his sister and brother-in-law altogether.
Frodo listens to his footsteps down the hall, the rustle of him donning weskit and coat, and the front door closing. Only then does his smile fade, and he turns back to his desk.
Frodo pulls out the gold-and-brown tome — a book on legal customs regarding inheritance in the Shire — and the sheaf of papers he had hidden at Sam’s entry. The document is almost ready. Soon all that will be needed are the seven signatures in red ink.
He picks up the quill and renews his work.
At one point, he hears Rosie walking down the hall, Elanor babbling in her arms. The quill stills, but Rosie does not enter, and the quill continues scratching away.
The light slants low and orange, casting long shadows. The tea grows cold, undrunk.