Pleasures and Terrors of Domestic Comfort

Title: Pleasures and Terrors of Domestic Comfort
Author: Lydia B. Slade
E-Mail: SnapeIsGod@hotmail.com
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Completed: Yes.
Rating: NC-17
Slash: Yes.
Genre: romance, angst
Disclaimer: The title belongs to some art book we used to have lying
around the house. Everything else belongs to Tolkien's estate and
possibly to New Line Cinema. I'm not making money of any of it, so
please don't sue me.
Feedback: "You are my personal fic-writing goddess and I regularly
sacrifice goats before your shrine" would be nice. "Your fics are
crap and I want to bludgeon you to death with a blunt instrument" is
all right too. Hey--as long you read it, I'm happy.
Thanks: to my sister, for the beta. And to all the lovely people who
sent me feedback for "Pressure Points.specspecially Deidre. Thanks. ^_^
Summary: Frodo is unhappy. Sam is worried about him.
Story Notes: Set in early fall, a few weeks before Frodo leaves for the
Havens. Mainly book canon, but the physical descriptions of the
characters are, obviously, from the movie.


"Mr. Frodo, your supper's ready!" Sam calls. He knocks on
Frodo's bedroom door, balancing the supper tray in the other hand.
There's no answer. He knocks again, louder. "Mr. Frodo?" He pushes
the door open, cautiously, but the room is dark and Frodo's not there.

Sam checks the bed anyway, making sure, but it's empty. He steps
back into the hall, feeling unreasonably worried.'s b's been anxious
about Frodo lately; Frodo's been so quiet and withdrawn. He hardly
comes out of his room these days. When Sam goes to check on him,
he sometimes seems to be writing, but more often, he's just sitting
quietly by the window, looking out into the garden. He hasn't
been eating or sleeping well, and some of the prettiness has melted
away from his face; there are hollows under his cheekbones now,
and dark smudges under his eyes.

On those rare occasions when Sam and Rosie manage to coax him
out of his room he sits staring blankly into the fire. Or else he tries
to be cheerful, which is worse. Sam hates the brittle falseness of
Frodo's forced smiles; it hurts him, and frightens him, to see
Frodo like this. Sam has tried to talk to Frodo, but his words are
clumsy and he doesn't know what to say. He can feel Frodo getting
further away from him, all the time.

Sam realizes that he's standing in a dark hallway, leaning
against the wall with the supper tray in his hand and tears in
his eyes. He must look like a fool. He scrubs at his eyes with
the back of his hand and walks quickly down the hall. He
glances into the sitting room, the kitchen; Rosie's in there,
scrubbing a protesting Elanor. Sam smiles, but he doesn't see
Frodo. He pushes open the front door and steps out into the
twilit garden. "Mr. Frodo?"

"I'm here, Sam," comes Frodo's faint voice calling. Sam feels
an unexpected quiver in his chest when Frodo says his name.
Frodo's voice sounds more normal than it has in many days, and
the lilt of it reminds Sam of the sweet days here at Bag End,
before their quest began. He remembers Frodo then--Frodo,
healthy and laughing and always so unbearably lovely, all wide
blue eyes and flushed pink cheeks--and he grits his teeth to
force aside that train of thought.

He turns to look in the direction of Frodo's voice. Frodo is
sitting cross-legged on the crest of the hill over Bag End, apparently
watching the sun set. Sam takes a deep breath, watching the pink
light catch on the delicate lines of Frodo's face. Frodo looks
thin and tired, but his face is, still and always, beautiful to Sam.

Sam climbs to stand next to Frodo. "Mr. Frodo? I've brought you a
bit of supper."

Frodo turns on him that full, radiant smile that Sam remembers from
years past, and Sam finds himself blushing like a boy. "Thank you,
Sam," says Frodo, still smiling. He takes the tray and pats the grass
next to him. "Won't you sit down and join me?"

"Of course, Mr. Frodo," says Sam, sitting down a little awkwardly.
Frodo takes a bite of stew and offers some to Sam; Sam shakes his
head. "You eat it, Mr. Frodo. You've been getting too thin,
lately." Frodknowknowledges Sam's fussing over him with another
sweet, affectionate smile, and Sam feels his ears turn red.

They sit in comfortable silence as Frodo eats. Their shoulders touch.
The sun sinks lower and a wind comes up. Sam feels Frodo shiver next
to him, and his fingers automatically go to the buttons of his
waistcoat. He pulls it off and drapes it round Frodo's narrow
shoulders. "There, Mr. Frodo, you'll be warmer now," Sam says,eingeing Frodo open his mouth to offer a polite protest. "But hadn't we
better go inside soon? You oughtn't to be sitting out here in the damp;
you'll catch a chill, Mr. Frodo."

"I'm all right, Sam," says Frodo, leaning against Sam's
shoulder with a soft sigh. "It's good to be out in the fresh air. I don't
want to keep you out here if you're cold, though."

"I'm fine," says Sam, and means it. He's only in his
shirtsleeves and the wind is blowing chill, but it's more
than worth it to feel the soft pressure of Frodo's shoulder
against his, to see his master's face peaceful and familiar
once again.

But as the sky slowly darkens and the shadows lengthen around them,
Sam sees the lines of strain re-forming around Frodo's mouth, and
that awful blank look begins to come back into his eyes. Sam's
throat cramps painfully. "Oh, Mr. Frodo," he blurts out, "what's the
matter? What's wrong?"

Frstirstirs, looks up at Sam with wide blue eyes. "What do you mean,
Sam?"

Sam swallows hard. "You seem so unhappy all the time, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo looks away and doesn't respond. Sam shifts uncomfortably.
The ground is slightly damp under him, but it's a clear night and
there's a scent of grass and flowers in the air.

After a moment, Sam says, "I didn't think it'd be like this.
I thought we'd get back to Bag End and everything would be like it
was; or anyhow that's what I was hoping for, all along." Sam
sniffles slightly. Frodo is looking at him now, intently and
thoughtfully, leaning his chin on his hand. Sam looks at him
imploringly. "What's wrong, Mr. Frodo? You can tell me, tell
your Sam."

Frodo sighs, looking down at the ground. He glances back at Sam and
lays a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. "Oh, Sam," he says, turning
away. "I don't even know where to begin." Sam waits, watching
Frodo's face. Frodo seems to be deep in difficult thoughts; his eyebrows
are drawn together anxiously, and there's a pained quality to the set
of his mouth. His hand slips off Sam's shoulder and onto the grassy
ground. Sam picks up that hand; it feels small and cold, and he
chafes it gently with both of his own. Frodo absently returns the
caress, stroking Sam's palm with his thumb, and Sam's
breathing speeds up.

Finally Frodo looks up and his hand stills. "Do you remember what it
was like on that journey?" he asks, with a sudden passion that
startles Sam. "What it was like to be hunted--to be watched, to live
in constant terror? Constant horror? And then, the joy, the joy when
it was over--"

Frodo jumps up, begins pacing restlessly back and forth. "I can't
sleep for remembering it, Sam. And there's nothing in the Shire
to distract me from it, nothing! What is there for me to do here? I
thought I could find peace here, but everything slips by me like
shadows and mist. I don't see anything, Sam, I can't feel any
of it. Nothing matches the--the intensity of what I remember.
There's *nothing* here!"

Frodo stops pacing. He stands in front of Sam, panting slightly. His
face is flushed. He looks at Sam keenly. "Do you understand, Sam? Do
you?" He pauses for a moment, then goes on. "It's as though
I've passed through fire, and been burned away. And there's nothing
now that could make me feel anything, except perhaps the heat of that
same fire." He stops, maybe to take a breath.

"I do understand, sir," Sam says earnestlookiooking up at Frodo.
He's disturbed by Frodo's words, but he understands. He too
has moments when he's overwhelmed by what he remembers--
moments when he's working in the garden under the sun, or
playing with Elanor in the Bag End kitchen, when suddenly
some sound or color will call up, unbidden, some vivid and
tangible memory of his long ordeal.

These incidents always leave him shaken. He thinks of what it must be
like for Frodo--always more delicate than Sam, and also much more
deeply hurt--to be constantly buffeted by such overpowering visions
and sensations.

As Frodo stands silently before him, Sam's mind turns to the
things that come back to him most vividly: the terror of the
Nazgul, the choking reek of Mordor and the stench of
Shelob's lair. With a painful throb the memory of Shelob brings
back to him his bitter and terrible pain when he thought that
Frodo lay before him dead; he remembers his grief, and
then the sudden flare of hope that tore through him when he
heard the Orcs say of his master, "He isn't dead!"--and the bliss
that followed when at last he found Frodo, alive beyond hope
in the terrible tower.

As Sam sits quietly on the cold grass, other memories rush back over
him as well: the endless weariness and thirst, as they trudged
through Mordor; his anxiety about his master; the terror that cramped
his stomach at every sudden noise, fearing every moment that they
would be seen by spies of the Enemy, and the final numbness.

And, suddenly, he remembers other things: the light shining through
the trees in Lothlorien; the beauty of Galadriel; and, too, the heat
of Frodo's sleeping body, burning into him, as they rested
together on the foothills of Mount Doom, clinging to each other
on the edge of death. Sam blinks back tears, and looks up at Frodo.
Frodo is turned away from him, looking up at the sky, and Sam
can't see faceface.

It's true, Sam thinks, that there have been few moments in the
Shire that matched, as Frodo put it, the *intensity* of what came
before. There have been some. Sam thinks of his wedding night, of his
first clumsy, ecstatic embraces with Rose. He remembers standing over
Rosie as she struggled through the birth of Elanor, how terribly
afraid he was, seeing only the blood and the pain in his wife's
face--and then finally it was over, and he stood with his beautiful
baby daughter in his arms.

Those moments cut through the fog in his mind. They helped to push
aside the memories of anguish--and joy, too--that had been burned
into his brain. And such moments of high emotion, combined with his
everyday cares and fears and his love of his wife and daughter and
garden--have all tended to shield him from the full brunt of what he
remembers.

Frodo, Sam realizes with a pang, has nothing similar to comfort
himself with--nothing but, perhaps, the presence of Sam and Rose and
all their friends. And yet, for no reason that Sam can understand,
Frodo seems to be pulling further and further away from them all,
withdrawing from the world and even from his Sam.

Sam opens his mouth, meaning to tell Frodo something, but he shuts it
again uncertainly. What he really wants to say is that he loves
Frodo, more than anything in the world except, perhaps, his daughter.
He wants to say that Frodo is in him, under his skin and in his
blood, and that he can't bear it when o tro treats him coldly or
turns away from him. He wants to beg Frodo not to leave. But he
doesn't have the words. So he sits quietly, looking up at
Frodo's slender silhouette, watching the night-breeze blow dark clouds
across the moon. There are a few fireflies around them now, winking in
the dimness.

The door to Bag End creaks open. "Sam? Mr. Frodo?" calls Rosie
anxiously from the bottom of the hill. "Where are you?"

Sam glances up at Frodo, who doesn't seem to have heard, and
turns towards her. "We're up here, Rosie dear," he calls back.
"I've just been keeping Mr. Frodo company while he eats his supper."
Rosie looks up at them, and Sam sees his wife's worried, pretty face
illuminated by the light of a lantern she holds.

"Well, don't be too long then," she says, and turns to go back
inside. "Goodnight, Mr. Frodo," she adds. Frodo doesn't respond.
There's a moment of silence, and then the door clicks closed
behind her.

The crickets are singing, and Sam listens to them for a few minutes.
A breeze blows through his hair, through his thin shirt, and he
shivers slightly. He's beginning to feel a bit chilled.

Then Frodo says suddenly, "And the *Ring*," in a surprisingly husky,
almost seductive voice. Sam looks up at him, startled and disturbed--
Frodo sounds as if he's begun speaking in the middle of some
complicated inner monologue. He barely seems aware of Sam's
presence. Then Frodo turns to look intently into Sam's eyes. "Do
you remember *It*?" Frodo asks in that same strangely passionate
voice. "You carried it, for a little while. Do you remember how
everything in the world narrowed dow it- it--how you couldn't
feel anything except it scorching all the inside of your skull?"

Frodo pauses, and Sam starts to say yes, yes he remembers, he
remembers the feel of it sucking at his will and reason--but Frodo
cuts him off. "I can't forget it," Frodo says slowly, turning his
head up towards the moon. "It was everything, it was all through me,
and now it's gone, the heat of it is gone. There's nothing
but cold shadows left, there's nothing for me here. I can't stay here,
Sam. I have to leave."

Sam has been dreading those words--"I have to leave"--for a long
time, and now he's heard them. He feels a painful wrench in his
chest, and his face scrunches up; his eyes hurt. Sam presses his
fists into his eyes, trying not to cry, trying not to make a sound,
but he opens his mouth to take a breath and hears himself sob.

Frodo turns to him immediately, looking distressed. "Oh, Sam,
don't cry!" says Frodo, visibly upset. He kneels down in front of Sam,
tugs Sam's hands away from his face, and pulls him into an awkward
hug. "Don't cry," Frodo says again, tears in his own voice now,
and Sam takes a deep breath; he feels as though he's choking on
tears, smothering himself in Frodo's linen-covered shoulder.
Frodo's hair is soft, tickling Sam's cheek, and it smells of cut
grass.

Sam feels Frodo shifting around, apparently trying to find a less
awkward position, and for a moment Sam is uncomfortably aware of the
way Frodo's body feels, moving against his. It doesn't help,
either, that Frodo eventually settles down more or less in Sam's lap. His
chest is pressed to Sam's, his legs are loosely around Sam's
waist, and he's gently stroking Sam's back with his soft hands. Sam
sniffles into the crook of Frodo's neck and tries to stop crying, but
it's no use; he's been too unhappy for too long. And holding Frodo,
like this, it's unbalancing in its intensity. They've barely touched in
recent months. And now Sam can feel Frodo all along his body,
Frodo's delicate warmth, and it's making all the surface of his skin
tingle in a way that's not sexual but could be.

"Shhh," Frodo says softly, pulling back a little to look at Sam. He
cups Sam's face in his hands, pushes wet hair out of Sam's
eyes. His fingers are cool on Sam's hot temples. He leans
forward to lightly kiss the damp skin under Sam's swollen eyes,
and Sam sits, as if transfixed, as Frodo's lips move slowly down
over Sam's cheek, following the tracks of his tears. Frodo pauses
over the corner of Sam's mouth. Sam takes a quick breath, and
jerks his chin up so that their noses bump and their lips meet in a
clumsy kiss.

Frodo makes a little, startled sound. Then he kisses Sam back, hard.

The air is cool, almost cold, around them, but Frodo's lips are
warm and his half-open mouth is wet and wonderfully soft. Frodo's
hot tongue pushes cautiously at Sam's lips, and Sam gasps slightly;
h imm immediately, achingly hard. He brings his hands up to cup
Frodo's hot face. Frodo's slender fingers are already pushing
through his hair; each time the pads of Frodo's finger-tips brush Sam's scalp,
Sam feels goosebumps rising deliciously on the back of his neck. He
shivers. His mouth comes open, just a bit, and Frodo slips his tongue
inside.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, feeling suddenly happy and just slightly
delirious. He sucks, experimentally, on the tip of Frodo's
tongue, and Frodo shudders when he does that; shudders and
moans and pulls Sam closer to him. There's heat and hardness
between Frodo's legs; Sam can feel it, just barely brushing his
own, and his hips twitch with wanting to push forward against Frodo.
But he doesn't dare to, not yet, and so they sit, for a long moment,
kissing softly in the dark.

Then suddenly Frodo's body stiffens and he pulls away, stumbling
to his feet. Sam blinks, startled. The cold air is a shock against the
warm place where Frodo had been nestled against his chest. "Frodo--
Mr... Frodo?"

Frodo turns to him, and Sam is shocked by the unhappiness on his
face. "I'm sorry, Sam," says Frodo miserably. "I shouldn't
have done that. I had no right--"

"No, Mr. Frodo! No--I wanted--" Sam scrambles to his feet, reaching
out for Frodo. Now that the narcotic of Frodo's touch has been
removed Sam's mind is a dizzy spinning blur; somewhere
there's a low buzzing of guilt, but it's submerged by the heady wonder
of the simple fact that Frodo had kissed him back--that Frodo, his
beloved and beautiful Frodo, had squirmed into his arms and moaned
into his mouth and clutched at Sam as though he wanted him there.

Sam reaches out for Frodo, grabs Frodo's small, thin hand. "Mr.
Frodo--please--"

Frodo looks at him. "I'm sorry, Sam," he says again, tearfully.
"I never meant--I know how you love Rose--"

"I do," says Sam earnestly, his voice cracking a little. "I do love
Rosie dearly. But--" He looks at Frodo and knows he doesn't have
to say it. Frodo knows. And Sam knows, that Frodo wants this,
that they both do; he looks at Frodo, and thinks of kissing him,
thinks of pulling him down into the grass and rolling with him,
rolling over and over through the sweet-smelling night until they're
both dizzy and laughing and happy, like children, together. He
strokes Frodo's palm with a gentle thumb.

There are clouds half-covering the moon and in the dim light Frodo
looks less pale and worn. His lips are still pink, his eyes still
blue, and, trying not to think, Sam steps forward to put his hand on
Frodo's cheek. Frodo's face tilts up towards Sam's. Sam
looks at him for a moment, hesitating; then Frodo leans up and
Sam leans down and they're kissing, once again.

This time Frodo's mouth comes open almost immediately and his
tongue is there again, hot and wet and sliding into Sam's mouth,
and Sam breathes in loudly through his nose because he doesn't
want to pull away. The heat between Sam's legs comes back in a
sudden urgent rush. He has to force his fingers to relax their grip
on Frodo's shoulders. Frodo is pressing up against him, clutching
at his back, and Sam can feel Frodo's erection, nudging against
his hip through the thick fabric of their breeches. It's making him dizzy.

He slides his hands down over Frodo's back; he knows what he
wants to do, but he's afraid that Frodo will think he's taking
liberties, and for a moment his hands rest tentatively at the small
of Frodo's back. Frodo makes an impatient sound in his throat.
Then he bounces up against Sam; Sam, weak-kneed and standing
on slippery grass, loses his balance and falls. Heavily, with Frodo
on top of him. Their teeth click together painfully.

"Ow," says Frodo.

"Ah," says Sam, who has had the breath knocked out of him, and whose
higher mental processes are largely nonfunctional due to the way
Frodo's legs are tangled up with his. It isn't helping,
either, that as they fell one of Sam's hands somehow landed lightly
on Frodo's bottom. Frodo's pretty, rounded bottom, which feels
wonderful and soft under Sam's hand. Sam is breathing so heavily
that he's starting to feel lightheaded. His bottom lip is stinging; he sucks
it into his mouth. Frodo is looking at him, blue eyes hot and intent; Sam
lifts his head, and Frodo kisses him again, his warm tongue sweeping
over Sam's sore lower lip.

Frodo shifts on top of him, squirms so that his erection grinds
against Sam's; Sam gasps into Frodo's mouth, and his eyes go wide for
a moment before he squeezes them shut. His hands clench reflexively
on Frodo's bottom; Frodo groans, and pushes harder against him. Sam
feels intensely hot. His hips are moving helplessly. He's not going
to last much longer, and Frodo, what will Frodo think if--

Sam slides a hand down between them, feeling blindly for Frodo's
trouser buttons. He can't seem to find them. He slides his thumb up
and down the velvet-covered ridge of Frodo's erection; Frodo squirms
and moans, "Sam, *please*," and finally reaches down to undo them
himself. Sam gulps as Frodo's erection springs up against his palm.
He touches it, hesitantly; it's hard and curved and moist at the tip,
and Sam can feel Frodo's heartbeat in the veins. He squeezes it
gently. Frodo whimpers and pushes frantically into Sam's hand, and
Sam only manages one firm stroke before Frodo comes, hard, murmuring
something that might or might not be Sam's name.

Sam wipes his sticky hand awkwardly on the wet grass and puts his
arms around Frodo. Frodo is a limp weight on top of him, half-asleep
with his head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam lies quietly and tries not
to seem as though he's asking for anything Frodo doesn't want to
give. It's sweet to lie like this, sweet to hold Frodo in his arms,
but Frodo's thigh is pressing between his legs and it's desperately
hard for Sam not to squirm against it. Frodo shifts against him,
moving as if in sleep, and Sam groans.

Frodo hears and lifts his head; his face is pink and flushed and very
beautiful, and he smiles at Sam. "I love you," he says drowsily.

"I love you too, Mr. Frodo," Sam responds, feeling ridiculously
happy, and Frodo kisses him again, kisses him with a wet and open
mouth. Frodo's hand is on his chest, hot through Sam's thin shirt;
he's rubbing his thumb over Sam's nipple, and Sam writhes underneath
him and makes frantic little noises into Frodo's mouth. Frodo laughs
softly and releases him, sliding down Sam's body, and Sam is about to
protest, about to tell Frodo, no, it's all right, you don't have to
do that, but then Frodo presses his hot mouth to the front of Sam's
pants and Sam can only wriggle and squirm and gasp like a fish in a
net.

Frodo is carefully unfastening Sam's trouser buttons, and Sam is
trying to hold still but the movement of the cloth is teasing at him,
and Frodo's fingers brush against him periodically, and finally the
last button comes undone and Sam's erection pops up to bounce against
Frodo's chin. Frodo laughs again. Then he kisses wra wraps his hand
around the base and rubs his lips along the underside of it, and Sam
groans and squirms and clenches his fists and tries his best not to
come less than ten seconds in. And finally Frodo opens his mouth,
slides his tongue along the head of Sam's cock and sucks, and Sam
can't hold back anymore; something hot and sweet pulses through him
and he's coming, hard and blissfully, into Frodo's mouth.

After a moment Sam opens his eyes. Frodo is sitting up next to him,
licking his lips and looking very tired and rather sad, but he smiles
at Sam when he sees Sam looking. Sam reaches down to refasten his
trousers, and sits up. He touches Frodo's shoulder hesitantly. "Ah--
sir? You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm fine, Sam, that was lovely," Frodo says, but he still sounds
sad.

"I love you," says Sam, not knowing what else to tell him.

Frodo looks as though something is hurting him, and he doesn't
respond. But when Sam tentatively holds out his arms, Frodo leans
into them, and they lie down together with Frodo's head on Sam's
chest.

After a while Frodo's breathing goes quiet and even and Sam supposes
he must be asleep, or pretending to be. Either way, Sam himself lies
awake for some time. He strokes Frodo's back gently and tries to
relax enough to close his eyes; he looks up at the moon and listens
to the bats squeaking as they zigzag back and forth. criccrickets are
still singing, all around them, and every now and then an owl hoots
softly in the trees. Sam sighs.

He has no idea, he realizes, what he's going to do, nor even what he
wants to do, not about Frodo, nor Rosie, nor himself. When Frodo had
looked at him and said "I love you" Sam had hoped that maybe somehow
everything would be all right, but he remembers the unhappiness in
Frodo's face and he doubts that it will be. One way or another he's
going to lose them, Frond Rnd Rosie, one or the other or both, and
even with Frodo lying in his arms Sam feels miserable and cold.

It occurs to him, shortly before he falls asleep, that what he wants
is not to leave Rosie, but to love her in a way that doesn't bind him
to this place, to this green quiet patch of Middle-earth, much as he
loves it here. When he remembers Frodo's words--"I have to leave"--
Sam wishes, hopelessly and wistfully, that he were still free to
say, "I'm cg wig with you."