After saying goodbye to Sam, Frodo returned to the study and flopped into a chair. How had the day turned into the disaster it had been? Well, it hadn't been a complete disaster. Sam was still talking to him, wasn't he?

He sat spread-eagled, his arms hanging out of the chair. It was an hour after midday, and he had already had luncheon. How to fill the rest of the day? Inspiration came to him as he caught sight of the Elvish book, lying forgotten where it had been discarded earlier. He would transcribe it for Sam, so he could have his own copy. He would like that.

Frodo sat up and moved to his desk. He readied several sheets of paper and set the book up in front of him. Cleaning his pen, he scanned the story. It wasn't too long; maybe he would have time to illustrate it with some of Bilbo's special coloured inks. He started to write.

Time passed. The mantel-piece clock ticked on. Bramble slept on the sofa, occasionally stretching and letting out small snorts as she chased dream mice.

Then Frodo came across an interesting passage. It spoke of a love letter sent between two lovers. Perhaps he could copy out the original Elvish as well as the translation. Sam had a good understanding of the language, even if he was not as practised as Frodo. He stretched and stared out of the window. A thought struck Frodo, and he grinned. Dared he…? Sam's face filled his mind; Frodo remembered all the times he'd looked out of this window in the hopes of just watching him. Yes. He dared. Frodo busied himself back with writing.

As it approached dinnertime, Frodo put his pen down and smiled down at his work. He'd done it. He hoped Sam would like it…

His stomach rumbled, and he went to the kitchen and prepared some eggs. He also cut up some slices of ham and gave them to Bramble, who was watching him with interest. Frodo passed the rest of the evening with his pipe, sitting outside and enjoying the mellow evening.

Eventually, Frodo decided to turn in for the night. As he padded softly down the hall to his bedroom, he saw a small cat-shaped shadow follow him, stealthily and silent, out of the corner of his eye. As he got ready for bed, it slipped in through the door, which he had left ajar. He could see her watching him intently, her eyes never leaving him as he moved around the room. Whenever he looked at her, she would instantly look away and begin fastidiously cleaning her paws.

Frodo lay in bed for a while and read, but found he could not concentrate; his eyes were sore from staring so long at the small print. He put the book away and looked at Bramble. This time, she looked at him, and cocked her head to one side.

'You can't stay in here,' he told her. 'I'll make you a bed just outside.'

He collected a few extra blankets stored in the room for when winter had the Shire in its icy grasp, but for now they would serve very well as a cat bed. He opened the door wider and arranged them nicely just outside. He turned back to Bramble, and tried to coax her to the bed by making little kissing noises. She merely looked at him, however. He tried again, but to no avail. Sighing, he walked towards her and picked her up swiftly. She didn't struggle; on the contrary, she began purring loudly and head-butted Frodo's hand. He did not fall for it, however, and placed her gently down in the nest of blankets. As he straightened and made to close the door, she stared at him morosely, and her whiskers appeared to droop. Frodo nearly changed his mind and let her in, but he strengthened his resolve and turned away. He shut the door and climbed into bed.

He lay there awhile, his thoughts just drifting… more often than not to Sam. Just as he felt his eyelids begin to droop, a scratching at the door woke him back up abruptly. Bramble wanted in.

He groaned softly and stood up. He opened the door and she raced in, nearly crashing into his legs, so desperate was she to get inside. She looked up at him with those big doleful eyes. With another sigh, he pulled the blanket pile into the room, and shut the door again. This time she curled up happily and began kneading the fabric with her claws as she turned around in circles to get comfortable. She finally settled down and went to sleep.

Frodo returned to bed as well, his blankets cocooning him and the night breeze coming in through his window played pleasantly over his face. Once again his lids began to feel heavy, and once again he was brought back to his senses – this time by a thump, and the slight sinking of his mattress to one side.

Blearily he turned over – and found himself nose to nose with Bramble. Her whiskers were tickling his face.

'I guess you're allowed to sleep here,' he told her sleepily, 'but only because I'm too tired to move you!'

With that she settled happily into the curve of his body. He gently laid an arm around her warm tiny frame. Her fur was so long and soft… He imagined stroking Sam's hair, what that would feel like…and so Frodo fell asleep.

Sam lay curled up in bed at Number 3. Mari had fixed his arm right up, and although Daisy and May had wanted him to help with some of their chores, seeing as he was home early, he swiftly told them of the promise Mr Frodo had made him give, that he was not to do any work, and milked it for all it was worth. He was not in the mood to hear his sisters nattering on and on about hair ribbons and lace, or what Tom Cotton and all the other handsome hobbits in the East Farthing were up to. So he excused himself as fast as he could after dinner and returned to his room.

He felt so drained. He had done barely anything remotely strenuous or physical, yet he felt as if he'd trampsed through all four Farthings of the Shire and back again. As he lay on his bed, he remembered Mr Frodo's face as he'd tried to clean up the cuts, the greenish tinge to his skin, and Sam laughed softly. It was funny, that Mr Frodo Baggins, so knowledgeable and unafraid of anything (at least in Sam's eyes), was quite so squeamish at a little blood!

As he thought of Mr Frodo, Sam felt a little knot in his stomach tighten. He couldn't pinpoint when exactly the knot had first appeared, but it lay heavy in his stomach at all hours, a constant companion. Every day that Sam looked at Frodo and saw what he couldn't have, the knot tightened ever more. Sam feared that one day, it would become so tight it would consume him, and he would not ever look upon his master's fair features again.

A bittersweet taste was in Sam's mouth, and a tear escaped his eye. Angrily he wiped it away. He would not let himself weep or wallow. He just had to ignore his feelings, his wants and desires, and continue as Frodo's gardener. The pain it brought was matched by the simple joy Sam revelled in when he was with him. And that was all it would ever be.

Gradually, Sam fell asleep, his mind lingering over the touch of Frodo's soft fingers on his arm.