The crisp autumn air had driven out the musty smell of rooms closed up tight for three long days.  Cheerful little fires burned in several rooms, warding off the dampness.  Numerous lamps, lanterns and candles lit the kitchen, the corridor, and Mister Bilbo's bedroom.  

Bag End looked inhabited once more, although Sam sincerely hoped that no one came calling tonight.  He was almost tempted to find Mister Bilbo's “No Admittance Except on Party Business” sign and put it back up.  But he also half hoped that Lotho Sackville-Baggins might dare to show his face. 

The entire time that he was filling racks with wood, starting fires, drawing water for the bathing tub, and setting coppers to boil, Sam had been thinking of all the ways that he could hurt Lotho.  He had narrowed it down to a couple that would leave him with a broken nose and with both sides of his face black and blue.  It was the only way that he could halfway focus on what he was doing and not just storm off to the Sackville-Bagginses right that moment.

The last time he had checked, Frodo had been floating quietly in the hot water, his head against a rolled up towel, his eyes closed.  Sam thought he might actually be sleeping, and he definitely needed it from the look of those deep shadows under his eyes, but Sam worried that he would slide in and drown in his sleep.  So he kept going back to look in on him.  Finally, he found Frodo soaping his hair and breathed a sigh of relief. 

Sam had found very little in the way of perishables, but managed to scrape together some eggs and mushrooms with a bit of nice cheese and sliced ham.  There was always that fine blackberry jam made by Frodo’s Aunt Dora to go with the sturdy little biscuits he had come upon, although he had to toss some mouldy bread and questionable milk, so there was nothing to put in the tea.  He thought about running down to Bagshot Row to get some milk, but he didn't feel like answering the Gaffer’s questions just yet.  It was enough the Gaffer knew where he was for now.  They would just have to drink their tea black tonight and he would leave a note for Miz Dahlia to bring Bag End's usual share from the milch cow up in the morning.  She had likely just been taking it all home with no one at Bag End to use it. 

He had found every bit of bedding there was in Bag End shoved into a dusty storeroom.  He didn’t know what that was all about, but he would have to get the laundry down to Daisy in the morning.   And the lamp oil was low as well.  Plenty of firewood though, the Gamgees saw to it that Bag End had an ample supply.

While he was busily making tea, his thoughts alternated from pounding on Lotho to a growing list of domestic tasks to pounding on Lotho to what he might need to pack for the road to pounding on Lotho.

Glancing over at the table, set for two, he was well satisfied with the fruits of his labours.  Omelettes steamed on each plate, one set for Frodo at the head of the table.  He wasn't sure how Frodo would react to that, being that was Mister Bilbo's place, but he supposed if things would be changing and they might as well start now.  Besides it would be better to sit there than to deal with the empty chair. 

What else would be changing, he wondered.  Why did things have to change?  Why did those you love have to leave you?  Sam had experienced enough loss in his life to know better than to ask that question, but still, here he was thinking of following Frodo to wherever looking for Mister Bilbo -- just walking away and leaving his family--

“Well, I imagine I smell much better.”

The voice near Sam’s shoulder made him jump. 

“I certainly must feel better because that smells delicious, Sam.” 

Sam turned from the teapot and found it hard not to wince.  Frodo was dressed in the deep blue velvet robe that Bilbo had given him last Yule.  The colour emphasized the paleness of his skin as well as the dark purple bruise from his jaw to his temple.  His hair hung in damp tendrils around his face and the gap left by the botched attempt to trim out the glue was very obvious.  He looked achingly beautiful and terrible at the same time.

Sam clenched his fist behind him, secretly hoping that Lotho was at the S.-B.s tomorrow when he and the Gaffer worked on their gardens.  “You look some better too.”  He smiled and tilted his head toward the table.  “You eat now.  The eggs are nice and hot.  I'll get the tea.”     

Frodo didn't move.  “Sam, I'm...I apologize for my behaviour earlier.  I--”

Sam's hand unclenched quickly and his fingers were on Frodo's lips. “Mister Bilbo's gone.  You're missing him terrible.  Nothing to apologize for far as I can see.  Now, go sit and eat.  We can talk more about it after you've got some food in you.  You look like you been eating stars and drinking air for a while now.”

Frodo's eyes closed and his hand came up to grasp Sam's, cool lips softly brushing Sam’s fingers.  Then Frodo turned away and stopped in his tracks.  Sam knew Frodo was looking at his place at the head of the table where Mister Bilbo always sat.  Frodo stood, not moving for a long moment, and Sam chewed his lip, waiting, wondering what expression was on Frodo’s face.  Finally, Frodo moved and took his place at the table as the Master of Bag End. 

Sam joined him in a moment with the teapot and was greeted by a slightly watery smile. 

“It is nice to have you here at supper, Sam.”

He didn't quite know how to respond to that.  Just ask and I will be here for every supper and every breakfast.  Just ask and I will follow you to the end of the world.  Just ask.  But he knew it would never be that simple.  Not for Frodo and not for him. 

“Nice to be here -- with you.” Sam poured the tea. “You don't have no milk nor cream, leastways none you'd want to use, anyway.  I'll make sure Miz Dahlia leaves some tomorrow morning.”

Frodo gazed at him for a moment as if he hadn't heard, then poked at the omelette with his fork.

“I'd be right pleased if you would eat it and not play with it,” Sam chided.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Sam.  Certainly.  I...I'm sure it's delicious.”  Frodo cut a bite and slid it into his mouth, then another.  His next bite was more eager.

Sam dug into his own eggs with one eye on Frodo's plate. 

“Oh this is wonderful.” Frodo looked blissful as he took yet another bite and then a sip of tea.  “I am starting to feel much better.”

“Good.  I knew you weren't eating right.  That can make you feel pretty poorly.” Sam kept eating, hoping Frodo would follow his example. “We need to get a chicken tomorrow and make a nice pie with those taters and carrots in the cellar.  I have to go to the S.-B.s tomorrow with Da, but I could stop at the Widow Millstone’s and get a fine hen if you like.”

“Bilbo always gets...” Frodo responded, his fork suspended half way to his mouth.  The smile faded, “...got his hens from Ivy Grubb.”

Sam wondered how he could possibly be almost as angry with dear Mister Bilbo as he was with Lotho Sackville-Baggins.  Yet, still, he wished Mister Bilbo would walk through the front door right now so he could give him a piece of his mind, personal-like.

“She lives close by Miz Lobelia.  I can do that tomorrow.”

Frodo finally ate the bite on his fork.  “They seem to be giving you more work lately.  The S.-B.s, I mean.”

Sam eyed Frodo's fork meaningfully, and another bite made its way to Frodo's mouth before he answered.

“Well, they’re not expandin’ the gardens at all.  Just pretending to know more’n they know about finishing the season and gettin’ ready for winter.” Sam snorted. “The Gaffer...Well, he doesn't tell me how much they pay, but knowing them, I suspect it’s not enough for the trouble, begging your pardon, them being your kinfolk and all.” 

Frodo waved his fork, his mouth full for a moment.  When he had managed that morsel, he spoke up. “Lobelia knows the Gaffer is the best gardener in the Shire -- well, one of the best.”  He gazed at Sam meaningfully.  “She wouldn't risk losing him.  Just as I wouldn’t risk losing Samwise Gamgee -- the Master Gardener of Bag End.”

Sam frowned at that.   “The Gaffer--” 

“No.  You, Sam.”  Frodo said firmly.  “I am the Master of Bag End, you know.  And if I call you the Master Gardener of Bag End -- well then, you are.” 

Sam thought about that for a while, poking at his eggs and frowning.  The Gaffer wouldn’t understand that at all, to his way of thinking, even if Mister Frodo was the Master of Bag End now.

He felt cool fingers slide under his chin and lifted his eyes to meet Frodo’s understanding gaze. 

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Frodo said softly.  “It will just be between you and me -- for now.”  

Sam moved uncomfortably in his chair.  ‘Master Gardener of Bag End’ didn’t seem a proper title for plain old Samwise Gamgee, but it sounded so -- right -- when Frodo said it.  Sam sat up a bit straighter in his chair and smiled tentatively under Frodo’s satisfied gaze.  
 
“Well, the Gaffer wouldn't work for Miz Lobelia’s like, ‘less she was paying well,” Sam managed.  “But I know I'll be hard pressed to continue down there after what Mister Lotho done.”  He stared at his omelette, then, remembering, looked at Frodo's.  Still a ways to go.  Sam forced himself to shovel a bite into his mouth, even though his stomach was suddenly sour.  He looked meaningfully at Frodo's plate, then at Frodo. 

Resignedly, Frodo took another bite and then another before he spoke again.  “Lotho has received a full dose of Otho and Lobelia's envy and malice every day of his life.  I don't know what is worse, growing up with those parents, or growing up with none.”

Sam watched him carefully, staying silent, realizing that Frodo had spent a good deal of the last few days thinking.  Perhaps a bit too much.

“Sometimes, when I don’t want to wring his neck, I feel like I should pity him, Sam.  I think he is so full of misery that it just spews out all over everyone else.”  Frodo pushed the remains of the eggs around on his plate, looked guiltily up at Sam, then took another bite.

Sam gazed at Frodo in disbelief.  “I never seen no pain in Mister Lotho.  He just seems full of spite and hatefulness to me,” Sam offered bitterly.  “What made you change your mind about him, if you don’t mind saying?”

Frodo finished his tea and Sam quickly poured more, sugaring it and looking absently around for the milk. 

“I don’t know, Sam.  I haven’t really changed my mind.  I still think he is mean and nasty and spiteful and stupid, but I just...I probably have been thinking about it too much.  But, I think...I think he can't give his parents the one thing they want most in the world, Sam.  The one thing that he thinks will make them happy, make them...love him.  So, he takes out his frustration on anything that seems to be standing in the way of that love.  A few days ago, that was me,” Frodo said matter-of-factly. 

Sam stayed quiet, thinking that was best when Lotho was being discussed.  He wondered if Lotho had waited until he and the Gaffer had gone off to the S.-B.s before coming to Bag End to ‘take out his frustration’.  Remembering that when they had come back from the S.-B.s was when he had found Bag End shuttered and locked tight, he clenched his fist in his lap.

Frodo took the last bite of his omelette and sighed.   “They have so much, the three of them, and they don't even know it.” 

Sam frowned, still playing with his eggs.  “They just want Bag End.”

Frodo shook his head and sipped his tea, “No.  They don't just want Bag End.  If they had it, they still wouldn't be happy.”

“I don't understand,” Sam picked up a biscuit and slathered on some blackberry jam.

“They have each other Sam, and they don't realize how precious that is,” Frodo said wistfully, staring sightlessly at his plate.  “I would give them Bag End, if I could have Bilbo back.”

“Oh,” Sam grimaced, Yes, you pillock. ‘Oh’ indeed.  Now you've gone and made him sad again.

Then Frodo looked up and reached out a hand toward Sam's resting on the table beside his plate.  Sam grasped the slender fingers, looking into the bruised face anxiously.

“But I am a bit like them,” Frodo went on quietly.  “For I have Merry and Fatty and Folco and even young Pippin.  And I have you, my priceless Sam.” The fingers squeezed Sam’s tightly when he blushed just a bit at that last. “And here I sit feeling sorry for myself, and wanting more.”

Sam couldn't say anything for a moment; he just held those cold fingers and gazed into those glimmering eyes.  He wondered which was worse, mourning at a graveside, or at a roadside.  Both seemed equally awful to him at the moment.

 “I don't see as how wanting Mister Bilbo back is being like them S.-B.s at all,” he managed. 

Frodo gazed at him for a moment and Sam tried to read his expression.  Then Frodo slipped his fingers free and cupped his tea.  “No, I suppose not.”
                  
Sam took a deep breath and pushed himself up to gather and stack the dishes.  “There's not much for afters--”

Frodo shook his head. “I am sorry, Sam.  I am sure the pantry is in quite a sad state.  I just haven't been very hungry.”

“Well, everyone pretty much filled up at the party and there was quite a few took home plenty as well.  No one in Hobbiton, or the Shire for that matter, should be hungry for a while,” Sam watched closely to see if that brought a slight smile, but Frodo was still just staring into space.

Sam poured hot water into the basin and made quick work of the dishes. “I can get some things tomorrow.  That is, unless you...unless we...”

Frodo looked up at the discomfort in Sam's voice, “Unless we what, Sam?”

“Unless we're headin’ down the road after Mister Bilbo.”

***

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