Drabble Cycle - Changes
Supposing
"Do you suppose it'll be very different when I'm married, Mr Frodo?" Sam brushes wayward curls back from Frodo's forehead, watching the fading firelight play over the fragile curve of his cheekbone.
"Oh, not so different," Frodo answers, hand stroking gently down Sam's spine. "We'll all be together, and that's what matters, isn't it? Whether there's two or three, it's all the same."
Sam chuckled. "Rosie won't let you leave the bed unmade."
"She will." Frodo's lips ghost along Sam's jawbone, whisper soft. "She can't possibly be as fastidious as you, Sam dear, so really we've nothing to worry about."
Jigsaw
"Mr Frodo, take your feet off that chair, if you please." Rosie glares at him pointedly from under her eyebrows, the ghost of a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. He sighs and screws up his face in complaint.
"They're not on the chair, Rose."
"Yes, they are." Sam chuckles to himself, but Rosie spots that and smacks him playfully across the head with the flat of her hand. "Don't encourage him, Sam. Off the chair, Frodo." And she disappears with a smile and a brush of her fingers against Frodo's temple, the last piece of the jigsaw.
Enough
"Rosie-love, I think you've done enough for one day," Sam says as Rosie lifts his feet to sweep the fender.
"If I don't do it it'll never get done," she says brightly.
"It will. C'mon, I'll do that." He lifts her bodily by the waist and deposits her on the sofa. She begins to protest, but Frodo catches her eye and smiles.
"Rose, when Sam's made his mind up there's no changing it, you know."
She rearranges her skirts and laughs. "I know that well enough."
"Well, best get used to it," Sam says gruffly as he stokes the fire.
Post
Frodo meanders into the kitchen humming softly to himself, and the tune's a merry one. Rosie glances up from the pastries she's glazing and smiles; she can see by the light in his eyes that it's a Good Day.
"Any post, Rose?" He wraps his arms about her waist from behind and brushes his lips against her cheek; she laughs and shoves his hands away.
"No, Frodo, no post."
He flashes her a grin and his hand steals past her to snatch a pastry from the tray before she can intervene. "Good."
She smiles and flicks the glaze-brush against his nose.
Beautiful
"Rosie..." She's beautiful, soft and warm and smiling, her curls near-golden against the pillow in the candlelight. She tastes like sunshine and rain, like home and peace and dreaming, and Sam can't quite believe she's his.
Oh, she's not beautiful as Elves are, not beautiful like the Lady Eowyn, not even beautiful as stars are, cold and radiant.
She's not beautiful like Frodo, with his strange, ethereal eyes and finely-cut features, his face haunted now by the ghost of a tortuous pain.
She's beautiful like Rosie, like a homecoming from the Shadow, and that's all Sam wants her to be.
Nursing
"Frodo, you are not getting out of this bed!" She plants her hands firmly on her hips and glares at him sternly. "You've had a nasty turn. You're to stay right here. Sam'd have my head if -"
"Don't tell Sam," Frodo breaks in hurriedly. She frowns slightly, and he continues, "He's got other things to worry about, Rose, please...I'm sorry..."
She sighs, the frown giving way to a look of concern as she sinks down beside him on the bed. "Don't be sorry, Frodo dear. You can't help it." She presses a kiss to his forehead. "I won't tell."
Dusk
Sam shifts a little, burying deeper into the soft grass. Frodo murmurs wordlessly in his sleep and tightens his hold on Sam as if to reassure himself that he's still there. Sam smiles and kisses him softly on the temple, stroking his dark curls out of his eyes.
"Is he asleep?" Rosie asks quietly. Her hand strokes gently up and down Sam's stomach, deft fingers pushing up under his shirt.
"Yes," Sam replies. She raises herself on one elbow and kisses his cheek, then his mouth.
"He sleeps sounder when you're with him."
"I know," Sam says quietly. "I know."
~
Pretty Good Year