An F/S slash parody. The Restraint of Master Samwise. PG. Denial is not a river in Egypt.
Honestly, Sam thought, some hobbits live with their hands down their breeches.
He hadn’t enjoyed one drop of his beer tonight, listening to all the smutty comments about the new young master at Bag End. Sam had not in fact met the new master, having spent all day at Widow Rumble’s pruning her aspidistra. He was already resenting the new Mr. Baggins’s existence.
“I wouldn’t mind a tour of his smial!”
“Aye, I’d like to know the ins and outs of his End!”
“He’s the mathom I want for your birthday!”
“I’d show him why we call the season Winterfilth!”
Oh, for the love of the Shire, Sam thought. Unintentionally he caught the eye of Jolly Cotton, and Jolly, very tipsy, gave him a huge wink.
“Sam,” Jolly purred. “You will tell us about it, won’t you? What it’s like to serve under him?”
Sam winced. He’d only just been deemed old enough to visit the Green Dragon in the evenings, and given the circumstances and all, it weren’t surprising.
“I’m sure he’ll be a good master, Jolly,” he said stiffly.
“I envy you changing his sheets,” Jolly chortled. “What I wouldn’t give..”
Sam stood up. “I’ve had enough for one night. See you tomorrow.”
“Aye, get your beauty sleep,” Jolly said, and nudged him so hard Sam almost toppled over.
He was up bright and early to Bag End, eager to get his hands on the pinks and petunias. He would tip his cap to Mr. Bilbo, and greet Mr. Whatsisname with courtesy. Well, that being if Mr. Whatsisname bothered to come outside early, which wasn’t likely considering the huge breakfast Mr. Bilbo would lay on for his nephew.
Sam had just set his shovel into a large pile of compost when he heard Mr. Bilbo’s cheery “Samwise, my lad! Good morning! This is Mr. Frodo.”
Sam whirled around, and his cap fell over his eyes. He pushed it up, squinting in the sunlight. The new master, Mr. Frodo, beamed at him.
Then he hauled back and punched Sam smack between the eyes.
Well, that was what it felt like.
Not that Mr. – Mr. Frodo was anything out of the common way.
Just that Sam would never need to see the Sea, not now he’d seen those eyes.
Then there were two lips that should have been carved in marble, skin which made cream look like custard, and raven curls that made ravens look like sparrows, or other less striking birds. Possibly chickens. With moulting diseases.
“Hello Sam,” said Mr. Frodo, in a soft, dulcet voice. “I’ve heard a lot about your skills in the garden.”
Sam knew he’d never hear a more lovely name than Frodo. There were no two fairer syllables in Middle-Earth.
He said, “Thank you sir.”
“Could you show me around the garden later?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to learn how to mow the lawn.”
“Yes sir.”
“And the names of the nuts Bilbo cooked in the pastie last night.”
“Oooh, yes! Sam is an expert on those,” Mr. Bilbo enthused.
Sam managed to tip his cap, and Mr. Bilbo and the gloriously beautiful Mr. Frodo began walking down the lane towards Hobbiton.
Well, quite beautiful. Passably attractive. Perhaps a bit on the slender side.
Sam returned to his compost, and spent five minutes staring at the wall before he remembered how to use a spade.
The next few months passed right peacefully. Mr. Frodo was sociable and invited his cousins for visits, and they were all friendly to Sam. Sam kept to the outside. He had to keep the whole garden looking its best, and that meant no skimping around Mr. Frodo’s window. Which was where Mr. Frodo was often visible, writing letters, reading, daydreaming, or changing his clothes. Sam planted a large clump of daisies under the window, which required a great deal of mulching, pruning and watering.
But then Sam found his duties increased to waiting on the Bagginses indoors.
That meant he had to wake Mr. Frodo if he slept in, wash his clothes, bake him cakes, draw his bath, and make his bed. Well, it wasn’t the thrill everyone at the Dragon made it out to be. He could do some tasks with his eyes closed. In fact, when making the bed he did keep his eyes closed. Sam had a sense of what was proper.
Unfortunately he had to keep his eyes open when hanging out the washing, after Mr. Bilbo observed that Mr. Frodo’s clothes appeared to have been thrown on the line. When it became apparent that some folks were not above stealing Mr. Frodo’s underwear, Sam took to haunting the yard to give the offenders a clout on the ear. In winter he hung the clothes up in the kitchen to dry, and tried not to find anything unusual in that when he was working on pasties he had to brush his face against Mr. Frodo’s smalls.
Mr. Frodo himself wasn’t a distraction. His being in the kitchen, blowing on a steaming cup of coffee, wasn’t anything difficult to deal with. Nor was his reading poetry in Elvish by the fire at night, or his habit of going for long walks in summer, coming home with his shirt plastered to his skin and his hair wild and sweat-drenched.
Sam asked his sisters to make him some wider breeches that summer. And thought it downright saucy how they sniggered. He was, after all, a growing hobbit.
Things went on in this fashion for some time, right until Mr. Frodo had gained his majority and Mr. Bilbo had vanished off on some adventure, and Mr. Frodo was left to himself. Sam thought this a wretched shame, and when the fellows at the Dragon said Sam would have to watch out now, Mr. Frodo was bound to take a wife, Sam had some hot words with them.
It was Lotho Sackville-Baggins who said Mr. Frodo was too ugly to take a wife, that made Sam deal in more than hot words. He told his friends he was honour-bound to defend his master, and it wasn’t no great matter to lay out a Sackville-Baggins. Mr. Frodo was positively, practically perfect in every way. Just not that beautiful.
That evening Sam met Mr. Frodo on the way home from the Dragon, taking one of his moonlight strolls.
“Hello, Sam!” said Mr. Frodo. “Are you all right? You look – rumpled.”
“M not,” said Sam. “S’two of you Mr. Frodo. I din think there was two like you in all the Shire.”
“Oh dear,” said Mr. Frodo. “Here, lean on me and I’ll help you back to Bagshot Row. Good gracious, are those new breeches again?”
“Thankyou,” said Sam. “S’very nice of you. You’re not ugly at all, Mr. Frodo. In fact, you’re perfeckly prattical.”
“Glad to hear it,” was the reply. “By the way Sam, you needn’t come in to wake me up tomorrow, I have a premonition you’ll be feeling ill.”
“M never ill!” Sam said indignantly.
“Well, perhaps a bit under the weather,” said Mr. Frodo. They came to a stumbling halt at Bagshot Row. Sam stood inches from Mr. Frodo’s nose, wavering slightly.
“Your nose,” said Sam, “ish beau’ful.”
“I’ve always been told it’s too straight,” said Mr. Frodo. “I like curved noses myself.”
“An’ your earsh ish like shellsh.”
“Didn’t get that word for word, but I think it’s time for bed,” said Mr. Frodo.
They were the last words Sam heard before he passed out. Funny how words from a perfeckly prattical person could have that effect on a fellow.
A few days afterwards the sheepish Sam was back at Bag End, serving breakfast to Mr. Frodo in bed. It did not help that the sunlight was so bright, or that Mr. Frodo happened to be wearing a nightshirt that was see-through, in fact diaphanous.
“Good morning, sir,” said Sam, staring hard at the coverlet.
“Indeed it is,” said Mr. Frodo. “It’s good to see you, Sam. I’ve missed having my crumpet in bed.”
Sam set the tray quickly on the bedside table and fussed with the daisies in the vase. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Not quite,” said Mr. Frodo, sipping tea. “Could you be a dear, Sam, and re-stuff these pillows for me? I like to rest my head on something soft. So long as it’s a little firm. One doesn’t want to sink through the mattress.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Sam.
“You know, I sometimes wish you’d leave that cap of yours on indoors. It suits you, you know.”
“Well, sir,” said Sam. Mr. Frodo did compliment Sam about four times a day, but it was usually about how well he iced a pudding or chopped the wood. This comment made him blush. Heat of the sun, of course, and the after-effects of all that ale.
“What are you going to do today, sir?” Sam asked, to cover the blush.
Mr. Frodo stretched luxuriously. “I thought I’d finish a poem I’m writing.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I haven’t much else to do today. Not a caller, not even Merry or Pippin expected. I suppose they’re tired of their plain and practical cousin.”
“Plain and practical, sir?”
“Perfectly,” said Mr. Frodo. “Where did that piece of paper get to? Ah.”
He dug through his bedside table, whisked out a parchment, and recited:
“I love him for his hazel eyes
I love him for his handsome thighs
I love him more than strawberry jam.
I love him and his name is…”
Frodo turned his eyes on Sam and said, “can you think of a good last line?”
Sam wondered there were hobbits in the Shire named Cram, Pam or Dram.
“Er,” Sam hedged.
“Why, Sam,” Frodo said. “I believe you’re hedging. Which is very appropriate for a gardener, but I would like to hear the end of that poem.”
“Ah,” said Sam.
“It sounds a lot better in Elvish. But then again, everything does.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” stammered Sam, “but I never knew – I never – ”
Mr. Frodo gazed at him, all that alabaster of skin and tousled midnight of hair.
“I never knew you - that you loved - strawberry jam.”
Mr. Frodo looked down at the crumpet smeared with rich strawberry preserve, and dabbled his finger in it. He sucked it off with a lingering taste. “Oh, but I do. I do very much, my dear Samwise.”
“Er,” said Sam.
“Sam,” said Mr. Frodo, “don’t you like strawberry jam?”
“I,” Sam stammered. “Well. It’s practically p-perfect.”
“Yeeees,” said Mr. Frodo. “But it can also be perfectly practical.”
“Oh,” said Sam. “Oh, aye.”
Mr. Frodo settled himself back on his elbows.
“I’m sure you can find a practical use for that jam,” he said.
Sam found many practical uses for jam in the next ten minutes, and late into the night, and the next morning, by which time they had moved on to honey and whipped cream. Hobbiton preserve-makers were astonished by the sudden demand for condiments.
But sometimes Sam and Frodo did without them altogether. One can get enough of strawberry jam. But never enough of someone you consider perfectly beautiful.