West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
It's Not Love
Frodo comes to a realization.
Author: Belleferret
Rating: PG-13
It's just that I've been rather lonely lately, with Bilbo gone so many years now. I'm wandering around in this big smial all by myself, with little company apart from the occasional visit by one of my dear cousins. It's been a while, too, since I've had a bedmate, lad or lass. Most eligible lasses have given up on becoming mistress of Bag End, so willing partners have been scarce of late. I suppose they all assume I have become a confirmed bachelor like my cousin. I suppose I assume it, too.
After all these years of privation, it's natural to start to fantasize, and natural, too, to choose a nearby object for those fantasies. Sam is certainly an amiable hobbit, and while not beautiful in the strict sense of the word, he has that good round form that most would not find unattractive. Since he's one of the few hobbits I see on a regular basis, it's natural that he would become the subject of my fanciful daydreams.
But I'm not in love with him. Oh he's an excellent servant, and a good friend; we get along quite well. He just doesn't elicit any of the feelings that one would associate with love. My pulse does not quicken when he comes into view. I don't want to stand near him to catch his scent. I don't find excuses to touch him. I don't long for him when he is absent.
Not that he is undesirable. I imagine he could have his share of bedmates; he's always cheerful and has a sweet disposition. I haven't seen him shown interest in anyone in particular, but who knows what he does after he leaves for the day, or how he spends his time off. When the time comes, he will make a good catch for a certain class of hobbit lass. He has a solid position as Bag End gardener and could support a family well enough, though I suppose a higher salary would not be amiss.
That sets me to thinking, and I pause over my elvish translation. Maybe I should raise his salary. I imagine giving him his pay purse next week. He realizes the pouch is a little heavier than normal, and opens it to look inside.
"What's this for, Mr. Frodo?" he asks, frowning a little in confusion.
"Ah! I've decided that I shall require some additional services from you," I say smoothly.
"Additional services?" His brows knit together tightly for a moment, then he looks up at me sharply. I just smile at him, and suddenly he is smiling too. In two steps, he is at my side, pulling me roughly to my feet from my chair at the desk, and his lips are on mine, hot and demanding. His arms have gone around my waist, pressing me to him. I am growing hard, and can tell he is as well. I fumble at the buttons on his breeches, managing to push them down, and then my own. We drop to our knees together, and he is turning me sharply and...
I realize a blob of ink is spreading over the parchment, and I shake myself back to reality.
I hear singing from the open window--Sam in the garden, of course. His voice is sweet and pure, and has grown deeper of late. He pauses for a moment, chuckling to himself, then continues with the chorus. The lilting melody enchants me, until the sound fades as he rounds the smial.
I look back at the ruined translation. Bollocks! I'll have to start over. Well, I wasn't doing a good job of it anyway. I crumple the paper and set it aside. It's about teatime, anyway.
While the kettle is heating, I gather scones, butter, honey and jam. It's a pleasant afternoon and I've been cooped up in the study too long. I put the items on a tray, adding a second cup after a moment's hesitation. I pour hot water in the teapot and carry everything out the kitchen door.
Sam is over by the shed and I call to him, asking him to join me for tea. Even at this distance I can see the happy smile that spreads over his face. His hair is glinting golden in the sun. He comes to the pump to wash up, sluicing cool water over his muscled arms and down the back of his strong neck. He rolls down his shirtsleeves and buttons his weskit before joining me.
I feel the warmth of his body as we share the narrow bench and the tea. He smells of good earth and honest sweat, of herbs and flowers. We talk briefly of garden matters and local gossip as we eat, before lapsing into a companionable silence. The breeze drops, and it's warm and drowsy under the arbor. A bee is busy at the flowers, and a bird is twittering in the shrubbery. There's a crumb at the corner of Sam's generous mouth, and in a dream, I reach to brush it away. My hand lingers on his face, gently tracing the lines of his lips, his cheekbone, his jaw.
Sam puts his hand over mine, turning his head so his lips brush my palm, and he sighs my name softly. He is close, so close, and his eyes are like a sun-dappled forest, now green, now brown, and always shot through with gold. We look into each others eyes for a long time, and then he leans forward and our lips meet. His mouth is warm and moist, and I'm drowning in honey as our tongues meet and tangle.
"Well, I'd best get back to work," Sam says. "Thank you again, Mr. Frodo. That was a right treat."
I start from my daydream, and watch Sam pick up the tray and take it back towards the kitchen door. I feel flushed and foolish. After a minute or two, I follow him in.
He is at the sink, rolling his sleeves back up to wash the dishes. He plunges his hands into the hot soapy water. A stray curl has fallen down over one eye, and he puffs his breath unsuccessfully at it. I restrain the urge to brush it away for him.
"You needn't do that, Sam. I'll take care of it later."
"I don't mind, Mr. Frodo." He turns and smiles at me. "It's the least I can do after your sharing your tea with me."
I can't help but smile back. "Very well, you wash and I'll dry."
Sam washes each plate and cup carefully, handing them to me to dry and put away. Sometimes our fingers touch, and I find myself examining his hands. They are sturdy and square, but I've seen how tenderly they handle the smallest seedling. I wonder how they would feel on bare flesh, imagine how the calloused fingers would stroke gently, how strong hands would grip and arms restrain, how powerful muscles would...
"Mr. Frodo?"
I've been caught staring at his hands, and I feel myself blushing.
"Is aught amiss?" A look of concern crosses his handsome features.
"No, I just..." I stop, and stare at him, at the golden lock still falling over one eye.
My heart is suddenly pounding. Slowly, oh so slowly, I reach up and tuck the curl behind his ear.
Oh Eru, maybe it is love!
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