Frodo Baggins awoke to find the sun streaming in through his window and his bed sheets twisted up around him. He ran a hand through his curly black hair. That dream had been so strange, something to do with Sam, a barrel of pipeweed and smoke rings dancing and flickering in a firelighted room… He shook his head. Samwise Gamgee had been occupying his thoughts too much of late.

Frodo yawned and stretched, and made ready to get up. As he did so, he heard again what must have woken him: a snippet of song. He tensed – there was only him in the smial, since Bilbo left – but then relaxed as he recognised the voice. Sam.

Pots were banging in the kitchen, and he heard cupboard doors being opened. He heard Sam talking to someone. Now thoroughly confused, Frodo hauled himself out of bed, pulled on his robe and went to find out what was going on in his kitchen.

Whatever he had been expecting, it was not the sight that met his eyes as he walked in. He thought he would find Sam making breakfast, teapot on the stove and pans filled with food on the fire; what he found was a pile of blankets on the kitchen table and the entire medicine collection scattered around the various countertops. The other participant of Sam's conversation was not immediately clear, and Frodo wondered if perhaps his gardener hadn't been spending too much time out in the sun – indeed, Sam's face was looking enticingly flushed, he noticed – but then Sam made a crooning noise at the pile of blankets, and Frodo saw the focus of Sam's attention – the tiny kitten. Even Frodo couldn't help kissing softly at the little ball of fur, as he walked across the kitchen to get a closer look. At the noise, Sam's head shot up, and when he saw Frodo he promptly turned an even brighter shade of beetroot and dropped the glass jar he was holding.

'Oh – Mr Frodo sir – I'm so sorry – oh, sir… Right ninnyhammer I am sir, me Gaffer's said it many a time, that I can't do naught without breaking summat –'

Frodo smiled and cut off Sam's tirade of self-deprecating comments.

'Sam, its fine, really! Don't worry. I startled you. Sam – I…' he stopped as he realised Sam was refusing to look at him. Frodo uttered a soft sigh and turned to get the broom. He made to start clearing the shards of glass but Sam took it from him and muttered, 'no sir, I'll do it, 'tis me own fault…'

Frodo released the broom reluctantly, and turned to the sink to wet a cloth.

'So Sam, tell me, what is a cat doing in my kitchen? And why in all of Middle-Earth is my medicine collection out?' he laughed.

Sam looked at him and mumbled something unintelligible.

'Sam, you'll have to speak up! I'm not a lip-reader! And Sam – you're not in trouble, you know,' Frodo said, half exasperated and half stifling back a laugh at the situation.

Still scarlet, Sam explained how he'd found the cat under the hedge and was in the process of finding the ointment to treat the kitten's leg when Mr Frodo had entered and… after an awkward pause, Sam continued.

'The cuts aren't too bad, but mighty painful, I'd expect, poor mite,' he explained, his voice full of sympathy. He remembered only too well the countless times he'd got his own arms caught in the rosebushes as he pruned them.

'Well Sam, anything you need, anything I can do to help – I'm here,' Frodo replied warmly. This was what he loved about Sam – his care and attention to everything, from the smallest animal to mightiest oak.

At Sam's answering grateful smile, looking directly into Frodo's eyes for the first time that day, Frodo's stomach did a little flip. What wouldn't he offer, just to have Sam look at him like that…

Snapping back to reality, Frodo finished wiping the salve off the floor and put the used cloth in the sink. He turned to Sam.

'What next? Can I do anything?'

'Well sir, I've cleaned the cuts; now it's just a matter of applying the ointment. I were doin' that when, er, you came in and I, er…' he blushed.

'Sam, you can forget about that! No point crying over… well, crying over spilt ointment!' Frodo laughed. It was really not a big deal, and he wished Sam would see that and return to his usual sunny self. He picked up another jar of the medicinal salve and handed it to Sam.

'Aye sir, I reckon that's true an' all,' Sam said a little gruffly, but a smile was playing on his lips. He took the proffered jar, paused, and then handed it back to Frodo.

'Do you want to apply it, sir? She's awful friendly, and don't bite…'

Frodo accepted the jar back and smiled at Sam. He turned to the kitten, and scooped a little salve onto his finger. He dabbed gently at the wounds, talking as he did so.

'So our little friend here is a she? Come to think of it, it is a rather feminine face she's got, isn't –'

He stopped as Sam's large hand, warm and calloused from time spent outdoors, enveloped his own pale one, scholarly and elegant. Well, everyone told him his hands were elegant; he rather thought them spindly and thin.

At Sam's touch, Frodo felt himself blushing as red as Sam had earlier. He tried to continue, but… being this close to Sam was truly distracting; his stomach was lurching and swooping, he felt…

'Sam, you take over! You're much better than I!' Frodo pulled out from Sam's grip and tried to laugh. He was feeling hot and bothered, and his muscles were clenched and tight and… oh. Oh. Suddenly his robe was not adequate cover.

'Would you look at the time? How late it is and me not even dressed! I really am turning into the slovenly hobbit Bilbo used to call me! Then a cup of tea, yes…' he babbled on as he scurried out of the kitchen. Once in the safety of his bedroom, he took a few shuddering breaths. He couldn't let himself carry on like this. Strengthening his resolve, he ignored the feeling he was currently experiencing elsewhere, and pulled on some clothes.