By: Dana
Summary: Sam finds himself wanting to look, and no, that'd not be proper at all – and why should he go looking, when he has ears, and they can so very clearly hear?
Characters: Sam, Frodo, Pippin (mention of them, more than not)
Pairings:: Frodo/Pippin + Sam
Rating: PG/PG-13
Warnings: Slash, eavesdropping, heard but not seen abuse of fruit, rather direct sexual references
Author's Notes: Something that could have been longer, but, if it had been, then it would have lost its charm.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

When Frodo came back up the hill, fresh from a walking trip from Bywater, it was with a basket of red-bright strawberries. Pippin, of course, became fascinated with them, even before Frodo had managed himself in through the front door, and Frodo warned him (of course) that they'd been a gift, for him and not for Pippin, and Pippin knew well enough not to go grabbing after what's not yours.

The day felt warm, too warm, and the strawberries were late ones, given the lengthening of the season. Sam imagined that they were plump, and juicy, and just so sweet – not tart at all, or bitter, and Pippin, when Frodo finally did allow him a taste (from the sound of it, that is), hummed pleasantly. Juice, Sam found himself thinking, must be dripping down the Took's sharp chin, sticky-sweet and slow –

And Pippin laughed something, far too low for Sam to hear, though he did strain his ears, and Sam had looked from his pruning in through the just-barely cracked-open parlour window, and Pippin's chestnut curls had vanished quick-enough down beneath the window sill. Sam finds himself wanting to look, and no, that'd not be proper at all – and why should he go looking, when he has ears, and they can so very clearly hear?

A mutter, an agreeable murmur given in return. Sam felt heat prickle across his skin, but it wasn't for the heat of the day, even if it was far warmer than it should have been. And it wasn't the sun, shining up high, that set a trickle of sweat to moving down the nape of his neck, but what he was hearing, and imagining, instead. "Here, now, don't you – " but Sam swallowed his words, wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow, and turned his attention back to his pruning sheers, and the wide dark green of the azalea bush and the softer pink of furled buds. The scent of the bush was sweet enough, and the heat of the day is stronger, and Sam feels it up his ears, and down his back.

And he couldn't push those thoughts from his head, even if he were wanting to.

(And he's not.)

Afterwards, it's Pippin who comes out looking for him, saying that there's fresh berries to share – and Pippin does look mussed, and pleasantly so, and Sam doesn't think he'll ever understand these Bagginses and Tooks (and he's glad there's no Brandybuck about, or else that would fully give him pause) – and for the life of him, it's not something that he'd mind. For all it's good to know what's ordered and proper, what's harm in knowing that there are those who are queer, and less than so?

But he sets his sheers in his toolbox, and he accepts the invitation (readily, of course), only muttering low that berries are no good unless they're had with fresh cream. And Pippin flushes (only faintly), and gives no Sam no answer, other than his own grin.