-Title: Firelight
-Rating: PG-13
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.
-Category: Romance, mild angst.
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .
---
Firelight- (Chapter 2/?)
The stew-whatever it was-must have been as irresistible to Sam as it had been to Frodo: there were *no* leftovers.
During dinner, Frodo had found, once again, that class-conscious Sam became more akin to an *equal* when put at ease. Food, stories, and learning seemed able to do this. Casual greetings, idle remarks, and teasing did not. Tonight Sam had quite warmed up to the idea of conversing with Frodo, and this didn't fall into either of the categories: it was a sort of limbo where Frodo could use some of the tools for putting Sam at ease *and* combine them with casual greetings, idle remarks, and teasing. The warmth of the kitchen might also have had something to do with it. And now they were seated in low chairs on either side of the light wood table, allowing satisfaction to wash over them.
"Hm . . . care for something to drink, Sam?"
"No thank you, sir. I'll clean this up, though."
"Oh, come now. Not anything?" asked Frodo, rewarded with a foreboding stubborn look he had learned to recognize as unconquerable. "Nothing at all?" he ventured again as Sam rose to tend to the dishes.
Frodo sighed inwardly. "Sam, that can wait. I'll take care of it. You don't *have* to," he said, then added quickly upon seeing Sam's protest: "I invited you to dinner. The guest shouldn't be doing the cleaning up. Not to mention the cooking," he reasoned. "Oh, and, I'd hoped you'd stay. For . . . well, I could read something to you in Elvish, or . . ."
"Sounds nice, Mr. Frodo. But, well, I really don't *mind* cleaning up," said Sam, changing the subject.
"Sam. Please."
"Well, at least let me get the fire going," he implored, not to be put off.
"It's taken care of." Frodo watched Sam's face fall and begin to turn desperate for a full minute before chuckling quietly to himself. "Come on." He beckoned to Sam and made his way into the parlour, which was now radiating the heat of the fire.
---
Frodo was beginning to question himself. Surely he'd not made as much fuss when it came to keeping Sam at Bag End in the past. Why was he doing so now? Contrary to what his gut was telling him, the house would not transform into a machine that allied itself with the winter and attack him, if Sam went home. Or so he hoped.
They spent about a half hour actually reading Elf-stories before dropping into more casual conversation again. Friendly. Frodo liked to think of himself as Sam's friend. And he thought that Sam did too. At this particular moment, at least, for he was opening up as he had during dinner.
---
*"I'm glad you decided to stay," Frodo had said.
"Me too. That is, begging your pardon; I like Bag End. It's homey, even if I don't exactly live here."
"Well, at least you don't feel hostile toward it," said Frodo, not entirely sure what he was talking about.
But Sam seemed to think that he was, for he piped up with a tentative "Mr. Frodo?".
"No, it's not really the house. I hate the winter, Sam, as I've said."
"It makes you take on so. I hate it, too."*
---
"It *is* rather warm in here," Frodo pointed out as he mustered the strength to move a book of Elvish from the table by the couch to it's proper place on a shelf. He was a touch drowsy from the food, the firelight . . .
"How long have you had the fire going, Mr. Frodo?"
"Since dinner." Frodo sat back down.
"That explains it."
"Yes."
Silence. When had it become so comfortable between them? Unfortunately, it was ruined for Frodo when a cooler draft wandered through the parlour.
"I hate winter," he muttered to himself.
"Is there anythin' you *do* like about it, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam unexpectedly.
"What? Um . . . there must be . . . let me think."
"Because, sir, I don't know as how you can hate it so much. Winter hasn't *done* anything to you." He sounded vaguely exasperated, though not angry.
"Firelight," stated Frodo, ignoring the comment. "It looks different in the winter because it's the only warmth, I suppose. I don't know. I appreciate it more . . ."
"All right, Mr. Frodo, I didn't mean to put you on the spot."
"Oh, I know," said Frodo. He offered a cheery smile. "Are you sure you don't want a drink, still?"
Sam debated for a moment. "Well, if you're still insistin' on it. Some tea, sir? Wine? I think there's still that 1420 in the cellar, if you want me to fetch it."
The fire crackled abruptly, brightening the shadowy room for a second. In that second, Frodo noticed that Sam's hair looked very much like the fire itself. Yes. And now that he thought of it, Sam's eyes resembled . . . something. The coals? He tried to make another association to the fire and failed. These were calm mossy coals, which he wasn't sure existed. Algae covered ponds sprang to mind: deep and penetrating, coated with that knowing green. How fire and water could seem so natural together was beyond Frodo. Sam's expression was a dutiful one, and his shirt was illuminated by the fire, painting it orange. Haphazard details-all in the space of a moment that stretched.
More silence. When had it become this . . . tempting?
Frodo must have had a distant look in his face, he realized, for Sam had tapped his arm and grown concerned again.
"Oh. Right. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Sam," he said, half whispering, half wondering why he even tried to.
Sam smiled and nodded, lingered for a moment. Then he made his way out of the parlour, in the direction of the wine cellar.
"I'll find some glasses," Frodo told the air, pausing and shaking his head. He transferred to the kitchen and began rummaging through more cabinets.
---
-To be continued . . .
-Success? Failure? Drop me a line. Ready? Set? "Go!"
-Rating: PG-13
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.
-Category: Romance, mild angst.
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .
---
Firelight- (Chapter 2/?)
The stew-whatever it was-must have been as irresistible to Sam as it had been to Frodo: there were *no* leftovers.
During dinner, Frodo had found, once again, that class-conscious Sam became more akin to an *equal* when put at ease. Food, stories, and learning seemed able to do this. Casual greetings, idle remarks, and teasing did not. Tonight Sam had quite warmed up to the idea of conversing with Frodo, and this didn't fall into either of the categories: it was a sort of limbo where Frodo could use some of the tools for putting Sam at ease *and* combine them with casual greetings, idle remarks, and teasing. The warmth of the kitchen might also have had something to do with it. And now they were seated in low chairs on either side of the light wood table, allowing satisfaction to wash over them.
"Hm . . . care for something to drink, Sam?"
"No thank you, sir. I'll clean this up, though."
"Oh, come now. Not anything?" asked Frodo, rewarded with a foreboding stubborn look he had learned to recognize as unconquerable. "Nothing at all?" he ventured again as Sam rose to tend to the dishes.
Frodo sighed inwardly. "Sam, that can wait. I'll take care of it. You don't *have* to," he said, then added quickly upon seeing Sam's protest: "I invited you to dinner. The guest shouldn't be doing the cleaning up. Not to mention the cooking," he reasoned. "Oh, and, I'd hoped you'd stay. For . . . well, I could read something to you in Elvish, or . . ."
"Sounds nice, Mr. Frodo. But, well, I really don't *mind* cleaning up," said Sam, changing the subject.
"Sam. Please."
"Well, at least let me get the fire going," he implored, not to be put off.
"It's taken care of." Frodo watched Sam's face fall and begin to turn desperate for a full minute before chuckling quietly to himself. "Come on." He beckoned to Sam and made his way into the parlour, which was now radiating the heat of the fire.
---
Frodo was beginning to question himself. Surely he'd not made as much fuss when it came to keeping Sam at Bag End in the past. Why was he doing so now? Contrary to what his gut was telling him, the house would not transform into a machine that allied itself with the winter and attack him, if Sam went home. Or so he hoped.
They spent about a half hour actually reading Elf-stories before dropping into more casual conversation again. Friendly. Frodo liked to think of himself as Sam's friend. And he thought that Sam did too. At this particular moment, at least, for he was opening up as he had during dinner.
---
*"I'm glad you decided to stay," Frodo had said.
"Me too. That is, begging your pardon; I like Bag End. It's homey, even if I don't exactly live here."
"Well, at least you don't feel hostile toward it," said Frodo, not entirely sure what he was talking about.
But Sam seemed to think that he was, for he piped up with a tentative "Mr. Frodo?".
"No, it's not really the house. I hate the winter, Sam, as I've said."
"It makes you take on so. I hate it, too."*
---
"It *is* rather warm in here," Frodo pointed out as he mustered the strength to move a book of Elvish from the table by the couch to it's proper place on a shelf. He was a touch drowsy from the food, the firelight . . .
"How long have you had the fire going, Mr. Frodo?"
"Since dinner." Frodo sat back down.
"That explains it."
"Yes."
Silence. When had it become so comfortable between them? Unfortunately, it was ruined for Frodo when a cooler draft wandered through the parlour.
"I hate winter," he muttered to himself.
"Is there anythin' you *do* like about it, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam unexpectedly.
"What? Um . . . there must be . . . let me think."
"Because, sir, I don't know as how you can hate it so much. Winter hasn't *done* anything to you." He sounded vaguely exasperated, though not angry.
"Firelight," stated Frodo, ignoring the comment. "It looks different in the winter because it's the only warmth, I suppose. I don't know. I appreciate it more . . ."
"All right, Mr. Frodo, I didn't mean to put you on the spot."
"Oh, I know," said Frodo. He offered a cheery smile. "Are you sure you don't want a drink, still?"
Sam debated for a moment. "Well, if you're still insistin' on it. Some tea, sir? Wine? I think there's still that 1420 in the cellar, if you want me to fetch it."
The fire crackled abruptly, brightening the shadowy room for a second. In that second, Frodo noticed that Sam's hair looked very much like the fire itself. Yes. And now that he thought of it, Sam's eyes resembled . . . something. The coals? He tried to make another association to the fire and failed. These were calm mossy coals, which he wasn't sure existed. Algae covered ponds sprang to mind: deep and penetrating, coated with that knowing green. How fire and water could seem so natural together was beyond Frodo. Sam's expression was a dutiful one, and his shirt was illuminated by the fire, painting it orange. Haphazard details-all in the space of a moment that stretched.
More silence. When had it become this . . . tempting?
Frodo must have had a distant look in his face, he realized, for Sam had tapped his arm and grown concerned again.
"Oh. Right. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Sam," he said, half whispering, half wondering why he even tried to.
Sam smiled and nodded, lingered for a moment. Then he made his way out of the parlour, in the direction of the wine cellar.
"I'll find some glasses," Frodo told the air, pausing and shaking his head. He transferred to the kitchen and began rummaging through more cabinets.
---
-To be continued . . .
-Success? Failure? Drop me a line. Ready? Set? "Go!"