Disclaimer, Sam; not mine, Frodo; not mine, only plot is mine.
I was watching as Sam came up my walk. I decided to tease him by acting angry with him for being late. He really wasn't that late, maybe fifteen minutes but I was so used to him being on time, even early, so I had already made breakfast, and it was getting cold. He looked so ashamed when I told him that he was late, that I quickly dropped my pretence of being mad. He seemed to relax when I smiled at him and let him into the house.
I gave Sam his breakfast and waited for him to chatter on about nothing in particular. When he didn't, I began to worry. "Sam, are you mad at me? If I've done anything that you didn't like, you can tell me you know. I won't get angry with you."
Sam jumped when I spoke to him, as if he wasn't expecting me to address him at all. "No sir, Mr. Frodo, sir. I ain't mad at ya. I couldn't never be mad at ya. Just thinking, that's all."
I was interested, as Sam's thoughts are often amusing, so I pressed him. "And what were you thinking about, Mr. Gamgee?" I watched as he grew red again, and muttered something about Rosie Cotton. I chuckled under my breath. Poor Sam has been sweet on little Rosie Cotton ever since they were both wee things, but he was always too shy to say anything to her. I won't say that he lacked courage, but self-esteem. Sam never had much of that. I've talked to him about that many times, when asked him about him intentions with Rosie. His standard answer was, "She wouldn't never want me Mr. Frodo. What would someone like her want a clumsy oaf like me for?" Then he would go to his work, a bit embarrassed, but determined to do something he enjoyed and not let a trivial thing such as whether or not a hobbit-lass liked him ruin his day.
He ate so slowly this morning but he would not let me think that anything was wrong. As soon as he finished, he was outside, working.
Two hours later, I was getting worried, Sam never takes this long to trim the hedges. Usually he would be coming in to the house asking about something to drink, or telling me that he was done with his first two chores and what do I want him to work on now. I decided to investigate. Quietly, I pulled open the door of Bag End and stood watching him. He looked as though he was feeling miserable. He kept wiping his nose and sneezing into his handkerchief. I kept track, after his sixth one I made my presences known. "That's the sixth time you've sneezed since I've been out here, Samwise Gamgee. Aren't you feeling well?" He told me a bald-faced lie, forgetting that not only had I known him for a very long time, he was also the absolute worst liar in all of Middle-Earth. His face and ears go red, he stammers and he cannot look you in the eyes. I let him continue, knowing that he wouldn't be able to keep it up much longer.
When we got into the hole, I watched him drink two glasses of lemonade, but not touch the gingerbread. That would have told me that he wasn't feeling well if I couldn't see that he wasn't already. I wanted to put my arms around him and hold him.
As he finished, I knew that I needed to talk to him. He was going to kill himself if he wasn't careful. "Well, I s'pose I'd best get to work, that grass ain't gonna cut itself, ya know."
My heart went out to him, anyone could see that he was sick. "Sam, have a seat. I think the grass can wait for a little while. Let's have a talk. Now, how are you really feeling?"
His face fell, even though he should have known that I was going to ask him something like that. I love him too much not to worry about him. But at the same time, I felt a bit disappointed in him. He should have just told me that he wasn't feeling well and saved himself the extra work. I listened to him as he poured out all his aches and pains to me. I could sympathize with him, as I had just gotten over a particularly nasty bout of influenza myself, which is probably were he got it. Every morning he would poke his head in my room and ask if I needed anything, every afternoon would be spent at my bedside, washing my face with a cool cloth and taking great care of me, and every night, before he left, he would come in my room and just talk to me for a bit. That was the time I liked best, because he never failed to amuse me, even though I knew that he wasn't trying to be funny.
He finished his list of maladies and felt so bad for him. I told him that he needed to go home and rest. I wasn't going to make him work when he was so ill. He looked at his feet, crestfallen, and mumbled a "Yes Master Frodo, I'm sorry, I'll take better care of myself," and went outside to put his tools away.
When he came back in for his things, I took his hand in both of mine. The sheer cold that was coming off them frightened me. I commented on them asking him if his feet were that cold. If a hobbit's feet get that cold, there is something definitely wrong with him. He nodded and shivered, looking so sick I felt nothing but pity for him. As I watched my friend start down the path I hoped that he would be alright.
I turned away and headed back into my hobbit-hole, vowing that I would look in on him tomorrow. After he sat with me for over two weeks it was the least I could do.
The next day I woke, and the first thing on my mind was "I wonder how Sam is doing this morning." I got up and packed a basket of things that I thought I might need when I went over there. I opened the door and was greeted by a gust of cold wind, I shivered, pulling my cloak tighter around me. I made fairly good time getting to Sam's place, considering the fact that the wind was blowing so hard. I knocked on the door, and waited, listening for Sam's feet as he came to let me in. When they didn't come, I knocked again. Nothing, I pushed open the door, letting myself into the hobbit-hole. Gaping around at what I saw, I was shocked. There was no sign of Sam, and the house was very cold. The fire had gone out, none of the lamps were lit, and from somewhere, a chilly breeze came in the house. I looked around and found the culprit that was allowing the wind inside. Someone had opened a window the night before, and forgotten to close it. I walked through the narrow hallway to Sam's bedroom, and opened the door. To my horror, he was laying on the floor, as if he had fallen out of bed and didn't have the strength to get up again. I raced to his side and knelt down, shaking him very gently as I did so. "Sam, Sam, wake up now. You fell out of bed, do you remember? Do you remember anything from last night?" He groaned, his eyelashes fluttered but his eyes would not open. "Come on Sam, you're going to have to help me. I can't lift you by myself." Slowly, Sam supported some of his weight so that I could get him back into his bed. I arranged the covers neatly over him, then placed my hand to his forehead. It was hot. "Oh, Sam, you're so warm! I'm going to go get you something for it." With that, I ran out of the room and filled a basin with cool water, snatched a cloth from the linen closet and hurried back into his room, for fear that he may fall out of bed again.
I found myself looking down at the best friend anyone could ever ask for, he and I had gone though a lot together, some good, some bad. He was with me when Bilbo left a while back, and I was with him when his favorite dog died, last winter.
As reluctant as I was to leave Sam's side, I knew that I had to get something warm to drink and a heating brick for his feet. His poor feet were so cold, I realized as I began to rub them. Softly, Sam moaned and stirred as he began to wake up, "Mr. Frodo?"
I laughed softly, "Yes Sam, it's me. Why do you sound so surprised? I told you I would be here in the morning. Besides, after all you did for me those days that I was so sick, where else could I be?"
He gave a small, contented sigh, and snuggled down into the pillows again. "Sam, do you think that you could stay awake for just a little while so I can get you something to drink? I'll only be a few minutes."
Sam nodded a bit sleepily, nestling down farther into the quilts. I pulled them up to his chin, "Try to stay awake, Sam. I'll be right back."
I brought him a hot cup of chamomile tea, and had to hold his head up as he sipped it slowly. I pulled it away and set it down as his nose wrinkled, he sneezed twice, and I held a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. "Poor Sam, you really feel sick, don't you? Do you want some more tea?"
He nodded, "Yes please, Mr. Frodo." He sounded stuffy and raspy. I allowed him to lie his head up against my shoulder while I administered the tea, sip by slow sip, careful not to give him too much at a time, for fear of choking him.
After his tea, Sam fell asleep again. Pushing his slightly damp curls out of his face, I thought back on the better times I had spent with my best friend.
I was watching as Sam came up my walk. I decided to tease him by acting angry with him for being late. He really wasn't that late, maybe fifteen minutes but I was so used to him being on time, even early, so I had already made breakfast, and it was getting cold. He looked so ashamed when I told him that he was late, that I quickly dropped my pretence of being mad. He seemed to relax when I smiled at him and let him into the house.
I gave Sam his breakfast and waited for him to chatter on about nothing in particular. When he didn't, I began to worry. "Sam, are you mad at me? If I've done anything that you didn't like, you can tell me you know. I won't get angry with you."
Sam jumped when I spoke to him, as if he wasn't expecting me to address him at all. "No sir, Mr. Frodo, sir. I ain't mad at ya. I couldn't never be mad at ya. Just thinking, that's all."
I was interested, as Sam's thoughts are often amusing, so I pressed him. "And what were you thinking about, Mr. Gamgee?" I watched as he grew red again, and muttered something about Rosie Cotton. I chuckled under my breath. Poor Sam has been sweet on little Rosie Cotton ever since they were both wee things, but he was always too shy to say anything to her. I won't say that he lacked courage, but self-esteem. Sam never had much of that. I've talked to him about that many times, when asked him about him intentions with Rosie. His standard answer was, "She wouldn't never want me Mr. Frodo. What would someone like her want a clumsy oaf like me for?" Then he would go to his work, a bit embarrassed, but determined to do something he enjoyed and not let a trivial thing such as whether or not a hobbit-lass liked him ruin his day.
He ate so slowly this morning but he would not let me think that anything was wrong. As soon as he finished, he was outside, working.
Two hours later, I was getting worried, Sam never takes this long to trim the hedges. Usually he would be coming in to the house asking about something to drink, or telling me that he was done with his first two chores and what do I want him to work on now. I decided to investigate. Quietly, I pulled open the door of Bag End and stood watching him. He looked as though he was feeling miserable. He kept wiping his nose and sneezing into his handkerchief. I kept track, after his sixth one I made my presences known. "That's the sixth time you've sneezed since I've been out here, Samwise Gamgee. Aren't you feeling well?" He told me a bald-faced lie, forgetting that not only had I known him for a very long time, he was also the absolute worst liar in all of Middle-Earth. His face and ears go red, he stammers and he cannot look you in the eyes. I let him continue, knowing that he wouldn't be able to keep it up much longer.
When we got into the hole, I watched him drink two glasses of lemonade, but not touch the gingerbread. That would have told me that he wasn't feeling well if I couldn't see that he wasn't already. I wanted to put my arms around him and hold him.
As he finished, I knew that I needed to talk to him. He was going to kill himself if he wasn't careful. "Well, I s'pose I'd best get to work, that grass ain't gonna cut itself, ya know."
My heart went out to him, anyone could see that he was sick. "Sam, have a seat. I think the grass can wait for a little while. Let's have a talk. Now, how are you really feeling?"
His face fell, even though he should have known that I was going to ask him something like that. I love him too much not to worry about him. But at the same time, I felt a bit disappointed in him. He should have just told me that he wasn't feeling well and saved himself the extra work. I listened to him as he poured out all his aches and pains to me. I could sympathize with him, as I had just gotten over a particularly nasty bout of influenza myself, which is probably were he got it. Every morning he would poke his head in my room and ask if I needed anything, every afternoon would be spent at my bedside, washing my face with a cool cloth and taking great care of me, and every night, before he left, he would come in my room and just talk to me for a bit. That was the time I liked best, because he never failed to amuse me, even though I knew that he wasn't trying to be funny.
He finished his list of maladies and felt so bad for him. I told him that he needed to go home and rest. I wasn't going to make him work when he was so ill. He looked at his feet, crestfallen, and mumbled a "Yes Master Frodo, I'm sorry, I'll take better care of myself," and went outside to put his tools away.
When he came back in for his things, I took his hand in both of mine. The sheer cold that was coming off them frightened me. I commented on them asking him if his feet were that cold. If a hobbit's feet get that cold, there is something definitely wrong with him. He nodded and shivered, looking so sick I felt nothing but pity for him. As I watched my friend start down the path I hoped that he would be alright.
I turned away and headed back into my hobbit-hole, vowing that I would look in on him tomorrow. After he sat with me for over two weeks it was the least I could do.
The next day I woke, and the first thing on my mind was "I wonder how Sam is doing this morning." I got up and packed a basket of things that I thought I might need when I went over there. I opened the door and was greeted by a gust of cold wind, I shivered, pulling my cloak tighter around me. I made fairly good time getting to Sam's place, considering the fact that the wind was blowing so hard. I knocked on the door, and waited, listening for Sam's feet as he came to let me in. When they didn't come, I knocked again. Nothing, I pushed open the door, letting myself into the hobbit-hole. Gaping around at what I saw, I was shocked. There was no sign of Sam, and the house was very cold. The fire had gone out, none of the lamps were lit, and from somewhere, a chilly breeze came in the house. I looked around and found the culprit that was allowing the wind inside. Someone had opened a window the night before, and forgotten to close it. I walked through the narrow hallway to Sam's bedroom, and opened the door. To my horror, he was laying on the floor, as if he had fallen out of bed and didn't have the strength to get up again. I raced to his side and knelt down, shaking him very gently as I did so. "Sam, Sam, wake up now. You fell out of bed, do you remember? Do you remember anything from last night?" He groaned, his eyelashes fluttered but his eyes would not open. "Come on Sam, you're going to have to help me. I can't lift you by myself." Slowly, Sam supported some of his weight so that I could get him back into his bed. I arranged the covers neatly over him, then placed my hand to his forehead. It was hot. "Oh, Sam, you're so warm! I'm going to go get you something for it." With that, I ran out of the room and filled a basin with cool water, snatched a cloth from the linen closet and hurried back into his room, for fear that he may fall out of bed again.
I found myself looking down at the best friend anyone could ever ask for, he and I had gone though a lot together, some good, some bad. He was with me when Bilbo left a while back, and I was with him when his favorite dog died, last winter.
As reluctant as I was to leave Sam's side, I knew that I had to get something warm to drink and a heating brick for his feet. His poor feet were so cold, I realized as I began to rub them. Softly, Sam moaned and stirred as he began to wake up, "Mr. Frodo?"
I laughed softly, "Yes Sam, it's me. Why do you sound so surprised? I told you I would be here in the morning. Besides, after all you did for me those days that I was so sick, where else could I be?"
He gave a small, contented sigh, and snuggled down into the pillows again. "Sam, do you think that you could stay awake for just a little while so I can get you something to drink? I'll only be a few minutes."
Sam nodded a bit sleepily, nestling down farther into the quilts. I pulled them up to his chin, "Try to stay awake, Sam. I'll be right back."
I brought him a hot cup of chamomile tea, and had to hold his head up as he sipped it slowly. I pulled it away and set it down as his nose wrinkled, he sneezed twice, and I held a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. "Poor Sam, you really feel sick, don't you? Do you want some more tea?"
He nodded, "Yes please, Mr. Frodo." He sounded stuffy and raspy. I allowed him to lie his head up against my shoulder while I administered the tea, sip by slow sip, careful not to give him too much at a time, for fear of choking him.
After his tea, Sam fell asleep again. Pushing his slightly damp curls out of his face, I thought back on the better times I had spent with my best friend.