Sam waited for some response.  Anything.  But Frodo just took a sip from his cup as he gazed at the table. 

There was a long silence.  Sam quickly finished cleaning up and put on more water for tea.  As he left to carry things back to the cellar, the only sound in the kitchen was the crackling of the fire.

When he came back from the cold cellar, he found Frodo still in the kitchen, standing and staring into the fire with his fingers held out to the warmth and an absent look on his face.  Sam wondered just how much sleep Frodo had gotten in the last three days.  He looked as if he was about to topple into the fire, as if some tightly wound spring inside him had unwound and left him wobbling. 

Sam couldn't keep from touching those silken curls as he walked up behind Frodo -- running his fingers through them then gently touching the bruised skin as Frodo turned toward him.  “So, I guess we should get to trimming this while you are still awake,” he managed gruffly, sliding his hand back into the drying curls and resisting the urge to gently kiss the sombre mouth.  Even after a year and more, one touch could undo him utterly, but this night Frodo was strangely fragile -- his normal resilience seemed to have vanished like Mister Bilbo.  Sam was surprised when cool fingers cupped his cheek and he quickly moved his own hand to cover them. 

“I am spent, my dear Sam,” Frodo smiled wearily at him.  “I don’t know why.  I am just suddenly so very tired.”

“I know.”  Sam turned his head into that hand and gently kissed the palm, then took it in his own, leading Frodo toward a chair. “So, let’s get this done with, and you off to bed.”

It was painfully familiar, this routine.  As Sam settled a towel around Frodo's shoulders, he realized, too late, that they should have done this in the bedroom, or sitting out in the sun tomorrow morning, anywhere but here in the kitchen -- anywhere but where they had played out the Baggins' haircutting ritual a hundred times.

First, Mister Bilbo would fuss at Frodo about how he had let his hair get far too long, and then Frodo would fidget and act terrified that Mister Bilbo was shearing him like a sheep.  Then Frodo would take the scissors and fuss at Mister Bilbo that his hair was turning darker at the roots and that he was aging backwards and would soon be a babe in arms.   And they would laugh and joke and teach Sam scandalous words in elvish, and talk about distant lands, and the recipe for scones, and so many marvellous things.  And after each of these rituals, Sam would carefully save Frodo's dark hair and carry it back to his room and stuff it into his cloth bag for remembering.  And if sometimes some of Mister Bilbo’s grey-tinged locks would get mixed in, Sam didn’t mind at all. 

He saw Frodo reach out for the scissors, shining brightly on the table.  Slender fingers handled them reverently, one fingertip running down the inscription.  “Risto vae, hebel vanias pant an-uir,” came the quiet whisper.

“Cut well, keeping beauty intact forever,” Sam recited from memory and waited quietly until Frodo held them up, then he took a deep breath.  “It’ll be quite a bit shorter, if that's all right.”

“That's fine, Sam,” Frodo said softly. 

Sam could hear the tears in that voice.  What he wouldn't give for Mister Bilbo to come walking in the door laughing at them both -- to be able to hand the old hobbit the scissors and watch them at their little haircutting ritual one more time.

Sam ran his fingers through those russet-tinged locks, still just a little damp, but starting to curl and twine around his fingers, the way that they had wrapped around Mister Bilbo's fingers that day so long ago, the first time Sam had seen Mister Bilbo cut Mister Frodo’s hair.  Not as many tangles this time.  Sam ran the comb through them carefully, remembering. 

There had been things said on that day that Sam hadn't really understood completely, then.  He knew that a lot of it had been about Mister Bilbo leaving.  But then it had seemed impossible to Sam that Mister Bilbo would ever really leave Frodo.  And now Mister Bilbo had left -- vanished into the night. 

How could you leave someone you loved like that? As Sam combed, he tried to remember what Mister Bilbo had said so long ago, but all Sam could remember was how overwhelming it had been to see Bag End locked and shuttered -- to think that Frodo had left without a word.  Sam shook his head and started cutting.

The kitchen was silent for a long while, filled only with the sound of snipping scissors and crackling logs.  As he ran his fingers slowly through the dark curls, Sam thought for a moment that Frodo had drifted off to sleep sitting up.  The tired voice surprised him.

“Do you remember, Sam?”  

“Hmmmm?”  Sam's fingers gently combed and held and cut, then moved on, combing, holding and cutting.

“Do you remember the day that Bilbo taught you that inscription?”

“Yes sir.” Sam looked at the dark curls surrounding them on the stone floor of the Bag End kitchen. “I do.”

“Do you remember what he said about it being a hard decision, to let someone go or to keep them with you?” Frodo asked.

“I remember some of it,” Sam stopped cutting briefly, but kept combing his fingers gently through the silky curls as he thought back to that long ago day when he had sat on the floor and listened to Mister Bilbo spin his tale.  “I know we talked about irises that day.  About separating them.  And about a big person Bilbo met in Rivendell once and how she had to let her son go out into the wide world, though she didn’t want to. ”

“Yes,” Frodo’s voice seemed relieved.  “And Bilbo said that those you love are like your irises.  Even though they are separate from you, they are still the same -- they are always a part of you.” 

“Like the hair on the floor.  I remember.”  Sam stroked his fingers softly across Frodo’s nape, holding and cutting.  “That’s when I started saving your hair.” 

There was a soft murmur from Frodo, then, for a long moment, there was only the sound of the scissors and the fire crackling.  Something about the silky texture of the curls sliding through his fingers and the way that Frodo subtly leaned into his touch, sighing softly, made Sam feel as if time had slowed and there was nothing in all the world but this room, the heat of the fire, and the feeling of Frodo’s hair in his hands.   

“I hope...I know he's finally happy.  He sacrificed so much for me -- so much time.  And I owe him so very much,” Frodo went on in a lethargic voice. “I don't think I told him enough.”

Sam longed to pull Frodo up into his arms, but this needed words, so he kept cutting and tried to think of the ones Frodo needed to hear.  “Mister Bilbo, he...he loved you, Frodo.  More'n anything. I know that it wasn't a sacrifice, what he did bringing you here and making you his heir and all.  I remember, when I was real little, how lonely Mister Bilbo was up here in Bag End all by himself.”  Sam could tell by the slant of Frodo's head that he was listening intently. “Mister Bilbo used to joke with the Gaffer about buying me for his own.  He would say that...” Sam tried to remember the words Mister Bilbo had used long ago, “If he couldn't have a Baggins living under The Hill after he was gone, then only a Gamgee’d do and he’d just take Samwise Gamgee and make him into a Baggins if he had to.  And the Gaffer would joke back that any Gamgee would make ten good Bagginses.”

There was a sound from Frodo that could have been a soft laugh.

“But it weren't just that.  I’d see him standing up here in the garden or sitting on that bench out front, smoking his pipe, just watching us playing around the Hill.  Sometimes he would laugh and shake his head, but it always seemed to me that he...he was missing something.  He had a...Well, he looked sad, until you came.”  Sam kept cutting, but slowly, tenderly fingering each curl as he picked it up to trim. “But you...you made him the happiest I think I ever saw him.  Why, Mister Bilbo said he would have dried up and blown away long ago without you in his life.  I heard him say that to the Gaffer once.”   

Frodo was silent, but he seemed to shiver now with each brush of Sam’s fingers, each snip of the scissors, and Sam moved to the side, carefully trimming the hair near Frodo's ear, his fingers caressing the ear tip briefly, then moving on. “I think Mister Bilbo loved the road all right, but he loved you more.”

“And I wanted to follow him down that road, Sam,” Frodo whispered.  “I still do.”

Sam swallowed hard at that, then moved to trim near the other ear.  Resisting the urge to lean over and gently kiss the angry bruise, instead he ran his thumb slowly down Frodo’s hairline before he started to clip carefully.  There was a deep indrawn breath in response to that touch, then a long silence filled only with the sound of clipping and a log shifting on the fire.

“I was going to leave,” Frodo finally continued in a shaky voice.  “After Lotho.  After everything that happened, I didn't want Bag End any more.”

Sam waited for more, fingering the soft curls at Frodo’s nape, but no more was forthcoming, so he moved around to finish the front.  Frodo’s eyes were closed -- dark wet lashes resting on flushed cheeks, breath sighing through parted lips -- and with one look at that face, something spiralled through Sam, frightening in its intensity.  It was more than desire -- it was deeper and stronger than that.  Sam knew then that he would follow Frodo wherever he might go.  Oh, he had said the words and thought about it, but the reality of doing it had not sunk in until this moment.  Sam would follow Frodo, without a second thought to who or what he left behind, to the pain that he would cause by leaving.  He would walk away from those who loved him and follow Frodo off the end of the world, if that was where Frodo went.

Sam gritted his teeth and tried to study the ragged hair he needed to cut, but he was finding it hard to breathe, to focus, to think as he gazed at Frodo’s face.  Would Frodo do the same?  Would Frodo walk away from everything -- from Bag End, his cousins, the Shire -- to follow his Sam off the end of the world?  Whatever the answer, Sam knew it couldn’t change the way he felt.  He finally steeled himself to the swirl of emotions and slid his fingertips gently up the bruised cheekbone before easing them into the hacked off curls.  Trimming slowly, Sam made certain that he got the last remnants of hardened glue and blended it carefully into the rest.  His hands were shaking when he finished, but not enough to matter.

“I even...I got a pack ready,” Frodo said softly. 

Placing the scissors on the table with trembling fingers, Sam slid his hands into Frodo’s hair at the temples and combed back through the russet-tinged curls soothingly, cupping Frodo’s nape as the silken tendrils clung to his skin.  He shut his eyes and leaned over to bury his face in Frodo’s hair -- that smell would always be Frodo for him -- juniper, a bit of cinnamon from somewhere in the Bag End kitchen, and just the slightest hint of wildflowers.  “I know.  I saw it on your bed,” he whispered as he started to pull back.

Frodo's hands reached out and grasped Sam's arms, the fingers were no longer cool, but seemed to sear into Sam’s flesh. “But I couldn't leave, Sam.”

Sam stayed quiet and still, pressing his forehead to Frodo's, shaking with the effort not to move or breathe.

“I couldn't leave you,” came the broken whisper. 

Sam felt the hot tears on his face before he realized he was crying.

“I don’t think I could ever leave you, Samwise Gamgee.”

Slender fingers wove into his hair and tugged downward.  Sam found himself kneeling in the scattered dark curls on the floor.  Then Frodo pulled Sam’s head forward and buried his face in Sam's hair, breathing deep.  Sam felt the moist, hot breath teasing at his scalp and imagined that he must smell of grass and dirt and fear and secret tunnels in the cellar. Frodo pulled back to look at Sam’s face, rubbing the gold curls gently, stroking through Sam’s hair with his fingers slowly, the same way that Sam had been caressing him.

“Who cuts your hair?” came the soft voice, and the teasing fingers moved to Sam’s nape then trailed up along his jaw to the side of his mouth.

Sam knew what Frodo saw on his face.  He saw it in Frodo's -- flushed with desire, wet with tears.  Even with the bruise and the swelling, that face, that expression, made Sam quiver uncontrollably. 

“One of the girls or another.   Whoever will do it.’’  Sam managed, his voice shaky and gruff. 

Frodo held Sam’s face between his palms, the blatant desire in his eyes sparking a deeper flush in Sam’s cheeks. 

“From now on, I cut your hair.” Frodo said, his own voice husky. 

“But M...Frodo, that wouldn’t be--” 

Frodo laid his thumb across Sam’s lips and said softly, but firmly, “I.  Cut. Your. Hair.”

And Sam couldn’t manage a response, because Frodo was slowly running his thumb back across Sam’s lower lip, those glimmering eyes following its progress.  Sam gave up trying to think and closed his eyes, his lips opening with a sharp intake of breath.   Then he fell headlong into hot, dark sweetness as Frodo’s mouth came forward and captured his own.   He curved his fingers around Frodo's nape and held Frodo there gently, unwilling to ever let go. 

For long moments Sam forgot they were in the Bag End kitchen, forgot the unforgiving stone beneath his knees.  All he knew was the taste of Frodo’s mouth, that taste he would never forget, that he never wanted to forget.  That taste that slipped into him and swirled him around and whispered ‘Frodo, Frodo, Frodo’ until he was sure he was saying it aloud.  And he was.  Chanting it, memorizing Frodo’s face with his mouth.  Kissing his eyes and his forehead and his wet, salty cheeks.  Whispering that beloved name over and over against Frodo’s skin.  Then suddenly Frodo pulled back and tried to stand, Sam rose with him, holding him on his feet as he staggered up. 

“Frodo?  Wha--”

“I promised...myself Sam,” Frodo returned breathlessly.

“Promised what?”

“That we would...NOT make the...kitchen table a habit,” Frodo responded.

Sam felt his face grow hot at that, but then he was too busy trying to make sure Frodo stayed on his feet as he headed out the door and down the corridor.  Then, after a moment, Sam realized something was amiss.  He looked back down the corridor, “Aren't we...uh...going the wrong--”

“Oh.”  Sam found himself standing in the doorway of Mister Bilbo's bedroom staring at the beautiful carved wood of that bed.  “I...Mister Bilbo's...” Sam couldn't even think. 

Mister Bilbo's bed. 

Frodo had faltered to a stop just inside the room, lit now with firelight and a few candles. 

Sam had packed away the spilled waistcoats in the trunk and shoved it to the side, shutting up the wardrobe.  But he had forgotten that Frodo’s bed -- Frodo’s old bed -- had been completely stripped of bedding, as had every bed in the smials, except this one. 

“It...it's my bed now Sam, but...I haven't slept in here.  Merry said I should -- he said ‘it’s the proper bed for the Master of Bag End’.  I think the scamp did something with all the other bedding.  But I didn’t...I haven't...I haven’t been able to sleep anywhere since--” Frodo looked around the room, then at Sam, who stood uncertainly in the doorway, still staring at the bed.  “I wasn’t thinking.”  Suddenly Frodo seemed even more unsteady on his feet.  The shadows were back in his eyes.  “Perhaps...perhaps this is a mistake.”

Sam looked at Frodo standing there in the candlelight, all pale ivory and blue velvet and ebony silk.  The dark curls were too short, the eyes were shadowed and swollen, the awful bruise looked livid on that skin in this light, and those eyes were gazing at Sam as if he were the only certain thing left in an uncertain world.  Frodo was literally shaking on his feet with exhaustion.

“It's so confusing, Sam.  I...I don't know where I belong any more,” came the quivering voice. 

Sam crossed the few steps between them in a moment, pulling Frodo into his arms.  He buried his face in Frodo’s hair and felt Frodo's arms twine tightly around his neck.  He heard his own name repeated hoarsely over and over in his ear as he pressed desperate kisses to that pale throat. “You belong here,” Sam whispered.  “Right here.”

After a long moment, Sam realized that Frodo wasn't moving at all as he leaned heavily into the embrace.  "Come on then.  Into your bed with you," Sam managed gruffly.  He turned and supported Frodo, nearly carrying him those last few steps to the platform, then up and onto the huge expanse of a bed. 

Frodo sat there on the edge of the bed, wavering, his eyes half open, as Sam tugged at the sheets and pulled them down.  “I'm sorry, Sam.  I'm just...so...so tired...suddenly,” he whispered.

“You need to sleep.  I suspect you haven't done much of that of late.  And this bed is as good as any; better, in fact, since it does have sheets and blankets.” Sam fussed, pushing him back into the mounds of pillows. “And you’re cold again.  You curl up here and I'll get things shut down for the night.”  Sam left Frodo still wrapped in his robe and pulled the sheet and covers up over him, adding an extra blanket for good measure. 

Those eyes, glimmering with emotions too complex to name, were watching Sam closely, struggling to stay open.  Sam felt a moment of panic at the thought of leaving Frodo, even for a moment, as if all the fear that he had pushed down over the past hours was threatening now to overwhelm him.  But they would deal with this horrible, wrenching loss; together they would survive it.  “I'll be right back,” he said firmly.

Sam had never snuffed candles, closed windows, or banked fires so quickly in his entire life.  He quickly swept up the clippings on the kitchen floor and tucked them away for safekeeping.  He tried to find one of Frodo's nightshirts, and then realized that Frodo had apparently packed them all or moved them into Mister Bilbo's...into his new bedroom.  But as he looked through drawers for the elusive nightshirt, he found that Frodo, evidently distracted, had missed all the personal and private things in his bedside table.  He thought for a moment about whether it was proper, then pulled out the bottle of oil, tucking it in his pocket and quickly placing the rest of the items into the top of Frodo’s pack.

Hefting the pack over his shoulder, Sam walked through a darkened, quiet Bag End, sadly aware that this night Mister Bilbo was not going to come through that front door after a good long evening at the Ivy Bush.  He could almost see Mister Bilbo laughing, his cheeks rosy with the chill air, asking what mischief they had been up to, and suggesting that they all have a nice mug of warm milk and brandy.  Tears welled up in Sam’s eyes at the thought. 

Frodo was asleep when Sam got back to the bedroom.  He sat the pack next to the bed and moved around the room, quietly closing the window part way and putting another log on the fire, then snuffing out the candles and leaving a lamp burning low, as he always did.  Finally he returned to the bed and hesitated, looking at the impressive piece of furniture that was the headboard.  Unable to decide whether he should open any of those intricate-looking drawers or not, he gave up at last and tried one.  Breathing a sigh of relief when he found it empty, he quickly moved the bottle from his pocket to the drawer.  The rest could wait until tomorrow.

Frodo was curled up on his side, nestled down into the covers and still not quite warm.  Sam lost track of how long he stood there watching Frodo just breathing softly in exhausted slumber, the firelight shimmering on his battered face.  Then, finally, Sam's hands went to his own braces, and he pulled them off his shoulders, untying his breeches and unbuttoning his shirt with shaking fingers.   

Sam looked warily at the big old bed -- Mister Bilbo’s...no, now it was Frodo’s bed.  Sam might get up before the sun and sneak back to the Row every morning, just to keep things proper-like and keep the Gaffer content, but this was home, here, next to Frodo, wherever Frodo was.  And now Frodo was the Master of Bag End -- and this was his bed and Samwise Gamgee was going to crawl into it with nary a stitch on. 

The room, even though warmed by the fire, was still a bit chilly as Sam went around to the other side of the huge bed.  He folded his clothes carefully and laid them on the platform then climbed in, trying not to jostle Frodo awake as he crawled slowly across the expanse of the big feather bed and slid under the covers.  The sheets were silky, soft and cool against his bare skin as he lay quietly only a breath away from Frodo, waiting to make sure he hadn't awakened him.  When he was certain Frodo was still breathing evenly and deeply, Sam slid closer, and slipped one arm over the velvet-clad form, carefully sliding the other hand into Frodo’s hair.  Frodo snuggled back into his heat instinctively and Sam relaxed at last, burying his face in the back of Frodo’s neck and sighing with contentment and relief.  It was the first time in three days that Sam felt he could really breathe easy. Frodo hadn’t left him.  Frodo would never leave him.

***

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