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"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but the mayor's here as wants to see you. I've put 'im in the parlor and I can bring a bit of tea in if you like."
Frodo looked up from his work and frowned distractedly. "Oh - I'd quite forgotten!" he exclaimed. That's all right, Sam, Will and I have some business at the mathom hall. Don't bother about supper either - I'll have something at the Green Dragon later." He hesitated. "I don't suppose you'd like to come along?" he asked without much hope.
"I better not, Mr. Frodo." Sam felt telltale warmth creeping up his face and lowered his eyes. "The Gaffer'll be here to take a look at the new bulbs anyway and it won't do for him to find me shirking my work, you see?"
"Oh - the Gaffer. Yes, I suppose I see." Frodo said resignedly. "You work so hard though..." he turned toward the door. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow then."
Sam murmured a reply and his fingers twitched as he watched his master leave the room. He cocked his head, listening for the light voice as Frodo greeted his guest and heard the smial door boom shut as they left the hole, then he stared around the study and sighed. He was desperate for more of Frodo's company, but he couldn't please himself in that direction. The Gaffer's latest lecture on the merits of 'knowing his place' still echoed in his ears and bid fair to ruin his pleasure in the sunny autumn afternoon. The window beckoned, and he drifted to it, staring out at the clear blue of the sky - never as beautiful as Frodo's eyes, and not any bluer either. His fingers twitched again and he looked down at them ruefully.
Sam was a hugger, he was; it came of trying to make up to Marigold for the loss of the loving mother she never knew. There wasn't nothing a warm hug couldn't fix, and even if he didn't understand the vagaries of the female sex, a hug went a long way toward conveying a willingness to try. What was good and needful while she was growing up wasn't as convenient now, though. Not when his master looked at him with such warmth in his eyes; not when even the thought of those eyes made his knees go weak and set his pulse racing. He'd give anything to be able to wrap his arms around that graceful body and lay his head on that sweet-scented shoulder. Beyond that, he didn't dare to see. After all was said and done, the Gaffer was right. It wasn't his place, and couldn't ever be.
He turned resolutely away from the window and began to retrieve assorted crockery from various surfaces in the room. Mr. Frodo was that absentminded when his work was going well, and like as not would forget that he already had a cup of tea and go off to get another. As he passed the desk, a blaze of colour caught his eye and he swerved in his path, his curiosity aroused.
The book was beautiful, its pages adorned with line drawings of plants, their leaves and colourful flowers laid out in loving detail. It was written in Elvish, and he leafed through the pages with care, fascinated as only a keen gardener would be. There were sheets of coarser paper covered with Bilbo's fine hand inserted between many a page, and Sam nodded to himself as he realized what his Master was about. Mr. Frodo was taking over his uncle's work - translating the text into the common tongue.
The Language of Flowers, he read slowly, his interest piqued. He'd reckoned that he knew summat of this, but soon found that what he knew wasn't hardly enough. What he'd learned was limited to the rustic herb lore of the Shire, words of protection and healing - old hobbit-wives tales. Which was all to the good, he supposed. Hobbits weren't given much to idle fancy, and he'd never dangled after the lasses like most lads of his age did. Flower-talk was the sort of thing they liked to hear, from all accounts.
He recalled his lessons with Mr. Bilbo, Frodo at his side, their mouths a-gape as they learned that an Elven year encompassed 144 years of Shire-reckoning. It was awful hard to imagine, it was - how long the elves lived. He supposed that they had quite a bit of time for tomfoolery, at that. And yet...there was something in those pages that called to him - a poetry that caught at his practical soul. His gaze strayed again to the window beside the desk, and he mused idly that the honey-suckle around the window needed trimming. Honey-suckle, he thought - he'd seen pictures of that in the book - and he turned the pages back and found it. Honey-suckle for devotion, he read, of Bilbo's translation and his eyes went blank as his mind turned inward. After a long moment, he raised his eyes to the world beyond the window - to the line of dusty lavender that was all the scenery he saw, and he smiled slowly. Devotion. It was fitting, surely.
Mid-morning of the next day saw him digging up the row of lavender and relocating it to the other side of the hill. Frodo glanced up from his work and frowned in puzzlement. "Sam," he called, and Sam looked up from the turf he was cutting and raised his brows in reply. "What are you doing? It's too hot for heavy work - and look at you - you're drenched! Isn't it a little late to open up a new bed?"
Sam wiped the wet from his forehead with a dirty hand, leaving a streak of soil across it. "Dad says it's all right, Mr. Frodo. I just wanted to get a good start on the spring growing, and the soil here's as good as ever could be. Was wasted on the lavender, it was. Come next year, you should've summat nice to see when you look out yon window - and it's not all that hot, really it isn't." He got to his feet and stretched, unkinking his back. The Gaffer always was hot on stretching. He maintained that it kept the muscles limber and the bones strong - and looking at the spry old man, he was right, seemingly.
Sam stopped in mid-stretch as his eyes fell on his master, framed in the study window, and he let his pent-up breath loose in a cautious exhale. Frodo's eyes were fixed on his torso where the worn homespun was plastered wetly to his skin, and there was a most peculiar look on his face. Sam felt the heat of his gaze, and his skin crawled as every little muscle on his body tensed with longing. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. No. He didn't have the words, and he didn't have the right. He'd go on as he did, and hope. And if that hope came to naught, why - it was fitting too. He lived only to serve, after all. And the moment passed.
Autumn wore on, and Sam dug and spread compost throughout the new bed. He sneaked into the study while Frodo was out and worked his way through the elvish tome, choosing and committing his choices to memory. Then he planted bulbs and started what plants he could. Yule came and went and winter drew to a chilly close. The last frost silvered the grass and the tender green of new shoots started to show above the rich soil.
By the middle of spring, the bed was blooming. Sam chanted under his breath as he tended it: in the middle of the plot, red roses for love, around it, pansies for loving thoughts, the bluest of forget-me-nots for love so true and a clump of lavender, silvery-grey against the green, for devotion. A cloud of maiden's breath hung in the air, promising everlasting love, and to keep the soil from drying out, a carpet of clover - be mine, it whispered. Here and there, the yellow blooms of late jonquils bobbed, and they asked, will you love me? And the wild daisies replied coquettishly, do you love me"? It was an attractive mixture, though it bore no outward rhyme nor reason. A garden chock-full of questions, and of love. Sam was content.
He hummed as he weeded, and didn't notice Frodo come up behind him, his feet soft on the grass. "It's beautiful, Sam," he said wistfully, and Sam jumped to his feet, his heart in his throat. A wave of guilt washed over him, why, he didn't know, and he stared at his feet and mumbled his thanks. His master stared at the flowers, an odd look on his face, and then glanced sideways at his gardener. "Clover, Sam? An unusual combination, but it works fine, doesn't it? I know most of them, but what's this? It's lovely!" and he touched a gentle finger to a sprig of maiden's breath. Sam told him, and his master smiled, setting the dusting of golden freckles on his nose a-dancing. He stood still for a moment, staring at the blooms, then his smile faded and he turned abruptly on his heel and disappeared into the smial without another word. It wasn't like him at all, and Sam's heart clenched in disquiet. A movement caught his eye through the window, and he saw Frodo enter the study and go toward the bookcase. Time seemed to slow down in the strangest way. His master reached for a book and opened it, and the paralysis that had gripped him fell away. He gathered up the tools and raced for the shed, dumping them any which way, and then ran quickly out the garden gate. He was halfway down the Hill when he heard Frodo's voice calling his name, and he slowed to a stop, shoulders slumping in defeat. He knew he could be seen from the front door, and he didn't see no other choice. He was done for.
Frodo fixed him with a steady gaze and held out a familiar book. "Have you been reading this, Sam?" he asked.
Sam met his master's eyes. If he was going to get sacked, he'd go with pride, he decided. He'd done nothing wrong, by his lights. "I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," he said hoarsely. "The pictures were so pretty, and it were of plants, so... "
"No! Sam, I'm not angry at you for reading it!" Frodo said. "I just wanted to know," and his voice faltered, "if you had really read it."
Sam couldn't look at those penetrating eyes any longer, and turned his head away. "Aye." he muttered. "I read it."
"Oh, Sam," Frodo's voice had a husky quality to it that rasped against exposed nerves in the most painfully exquisite way. "Would you come in? Please - I need to tell you something."
Sam entered the smial and followed Frodo to the kitchen, his body trembling in trepidation. Frodo pushed him onto a chair gently, and then said quickly, "Wait here. Wait for me," and he grabbed a knife off the block and ran from the room.
Sam closed his eyes against the sting of tears and sat still, trying to sort out the incoherent thoughts that whirled through his mind. He couldn't make any sense of them, and stopped trying with a sigh. Soft footsteps sounded in his ears like thunderclaps and he opened his eyes warily, watching as Frodo stopped in front of him with his hands behind his back. Their eyes met and Frodo smiled, the muscles of his jaw tense beneath the translucent skin.
"Sam," and he laid his hoard on the smooth wood of the kitchen table.
First, a sunny yellow jonquil, held out to Sam with a hand that trembled. "Yes" came the soft whisper. "I will."
Then a bunch of daisies, tied together with a twist of grass; and "Yes," Frodo husked again. "I do."
Sprigs of maiden's breath, forget-me-not and lavender, luminous in the dim light. "I love you, Sam." came on a sigh.
And last, a pink clover flower, held out on a trembling palm. "I'm yours, Sam. I always was - will you be mine too?"
Sam stood up slowly, his eyes on his master's face. His throat worked, but for the life of him, he couldn't make a sound. So he gave up and nodded.
Frodo laid a gentle hand against his face and leaned in - and Sam held his breath in awe at the beauty he'd never seen so close. Their lips touched and clung, moving so slowly, so sweetly. For a long moment they kissed, their only other connection a hand cupping a cheek, and then Sam's reserve broke, and he found his voice at last, whispering his love into Frodo's parted lips. His arms came up to press the slim form closer, and he felt the heat of his master's arousal stir and unfurl against his belly. So much joy - so much love.
The Gaffer was wrong, he decided, feeling the peace and the rightness of it all sing through his veins. He knew his place, and it was in his master's arms.
He was where he belonged. He was home.