He didn't have nightmares. The dreams he had weren't happy, rather grey and damp and desolate, but they weren't nightmares. They didn't burn. He woke to find his good hand entwined with Sam's, and for the first time in living memory he felt warm all the way down to his feet, sleepy rather than tired.
The events of the night before came into focus and Frodo sat up abruptly, a dull blur of a headache threatening retaliation to the sudden movement. Sam shifted, turning over without waking. There was nobody else in to room.
It was mid-morning, later than either Sam or Frodo had slept in months, and the main hallway of Bag End had a soft yellow light to it. A smell of eggs and an old song shared the air, wafting through from the kitchen. Lavender blue, dilly dilly, rosemary green. When you are king, dilly dilly, I shall be queen.
Rosie was at the stove, Elanor playing around her feet with a slightly worn rag doll. Frodo's warmth fled as a cold lump of fear formed in his stomach. They'd all been so happy, or near to happy in his case, and now it was all changed and ruined.
"That cot-bed of yours is mighty uncomfortable," Rosie said breezily, looking over at where Frodo stood, half behind the doorframe. "My mother used to tell me tales of a princess who could feel a pea through her mattress, but I'll wager you're hiding pumpkins under that one."
"I'm sorry -" Frodo started to say, but Rosie held her hand up and shushed him.
"My Samwise isn't the only one who's been concerned for you. When he asked me to wed him, he said 'now, my dear Rosie, I should warn thee before your heart's all set. Mr Frodo's more important to me than air or water, and that's not a feeling that can be put away in a box'. Do you want tea while I finish these eggs?"
"Oh, yes, thankyou, Frodo said, a little stunned. "But aren't you angry?"
"Oh, I like you well enough to share him." Rosie laughed, stepping around her daughter carefully and handing a mug of hot tea over. "From what I've heard there are ballads about the pair you being written in every corner of the world. I've always liked songs that had a bit of romance to them."
"You're no ordinary hobbit, Rosie Cotton," Frodo said in wonderment.
"That's Rose Gamgee, thankyou very much. And there ain't been an ordinary hobbit living in Bag End for as long as I can remember." She sat down at the table. "I'll leave those eggs to cool. My bones are tied up in knots from that rock you call a bed."
"Here, let me." Frodo rubbed the kinks out of her shoulders. "Better?"
"Mm, yes. When we were young, Sam and the other boys used to chase the girls all up and down the hills, playing catch and kiss. I used to think it was terribly awful when one of them caught me, they were so sticky and smelly and rough. You were bigger than us, and so serious and quiet, you seemed like a different breed altogether. I told Sam that I wished there were more hobbits like you, and he said he did too. I felt all firey with envy at the way he talked about you, and realised that I didn't mind kissing Sam so much after all."
"That's a lovely story." Frodo smiled, pressing his fingers into the tense muscles on Rosie's back. "They should write a song about it."
"You could put it in your book," Rosie said with a smile, settling back against him as he continued the massage. Frodo gave a quiet laugh.
"No. It's not a happy tale. You and Sam deserve books of your own, full of summers and babies and laughter."
"And you, Mr Frodo. You do too." Rosie stood, turning to face him.
"Perhaps. I think I'd like to see it begin, at least," he agreed.
Rosie lent in and kissed him lightly, her mouth a little tart from a mandarin she'd pulled off the tree outside earlier, her lips sweet and warm, and when she pulled away she trailed her hand down Frodo's cheek.
"It wouldn't feel like a proper home or a right story without you in it too. And nobody should sleep on that awful cot when there's a big soft feathery one so close by."
She scooped Elanor up off the floor and put her in Frodo's hands.
"Now, do you want tomato with your eggs?"
~
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