K. D. (oh_kaity) wrote in shire_gathering,
K. D.

(Frodo/Sam, for Thuri, for she is irresistable.)

Getting certain feelings out into the open was like taking a gulp of fresh spring air after a rain----it cleared the head and settled the soul, but the rush of it all livened the blood and awoke the body. And though Samwise Gamgee felt much better about the fact that he was no longer going to be sacked for his confession, he still found it utterly impossible to concentrate on anything. He still worked his hours in the garden, but every moment he could spend with his master, he did, and the more he talked, the more he realised he didn't much like talking, especially with someone who happened to be so much more learned than he was, and seemed so much more capable of holding a conversation when talking was the last thing he could think about.

Still, ever the servant, Samwise went about his duties----only this time, when he made supper, he sat down to eat with his master instead of disappearing elsewhere. But the routine settled back into its normal pattern when Frodo had gone off to his study and Sam had tended to the dishes in the kitchen. All seemed well and good, and it was silent save for the ticking of the old clocks and the dull clanking of sturdy flatware.

Then, the sounds of dishes faded, and the silence grew thicker. Sam had an uncanny knack of walking silently through halls to light the candles, and tending to the fire without being noticed----it was a gift that servants had. Where gentlehobbits learned to gather attention by seeming to be quiet and polite, servants were actually taught the art of quiet for quiet's sake.

And for the past hour, Samwise had been loitering in the doorway into the study, resting against the round frame and smiling to himself. He was perfectly content to watch Frodo's back while he wrote, catalogued, read----whatever he did, Sam wasn't entirely sure. But he didn't need to know what he did in order to find it beautiful.
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic
His cousins had been right. Frodo still wasn't sure how he felt about that. But since it meant Sam was talking to him, was letting him meet those eyes . . . he wasn't about to complain. And talk he did, finding himself going on and on and on about things of no consequence, histories and translations, anything that came into his head, the words filling silences otherwise too full of Sam's lips, the tilt of his head, the smooth slide of brown muscle over bone.

Frodo sat now at his desk, a stick of charcoal in his hand, sketching his Sam as he'd been in the garden that day. It was something he hadn't quite dared before, and not just because his drawing was somewhat less than skillful. As often as Sam was through his rooms, he hadn't wanted to risk him seeing it before. But now? Now it seemed well worth it. He sat back, finally, stretching and rubbing his shoulders, sore from holding the same postition so long.
A pair of strong brown hands came to rest upon Frodo's shoulders, kneading taut muscles back into relaxation----How many times had Sam longed to ease his master's pain, only to be too shy, knowing it was not his place? Perhaps he was still bothersome, but he didn't like to see his master in pain or uncomfortable for any reason. There was something fragile about Frodo, that Sam felt he could, and ought to, take care of.

"And here I think I may get sore in the gardens with work, and you hunch over a desk and ache without needin' to," he said, tenderly kissing Frodo's curls and then looking over his master's shoulder to the desk. "What's that?" was the question posed before he realised that it wasn't a question he would have normally asked unless he was feeling particularly curious and impertinent.
Frodo started, slightly, when Sam's hands first touched him, but then leaned into it with an appreciative little moan. "Oh, Sam, that's nice . . ."

His eyes closed, as he lost himself a bit in Sam's massage, strong and skillful, which surprised him slightly and aroused him more, as he couldn't help but imagine those hands elsewhere.

They opened again, though, at Sam's comment about working in the garden, and then lowered in a slight blush, at his question. "Um. It was supposed to be you, but . . ." Frodo looked the drawing over. It wasn't that bad, he thought, but still . . .