By: Dana
Summary: Rosie just doesn't feel sure.
Characters: Rosie, Sam, Frodo
Pairings: Rosie/Sam/Frodo
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash, ot3
Author's Notes: Written for the ringprov "alive, sparkle, dry, ravenous" challenge in under 60 minutes. Maybe I'm just lazy saying that it's rosiesamfrodo, but it does have a certain 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.

Illustration: fanart inspired by In The Morning Light (Hyel)

Rosie wakes even before the dawn, stumbling from bed and her husband's warm arms, and Sam shifts and sighs and curls in on himself as she pulls on her dressing gown. She turns, and watches him, and her heart thuds heavy in her chest. She can't sleep she doesn't know why, only that she knows she can't. She turns and takes the bedside candle, lighting it, and when she leaves the room, Rosie leaves the door cracked open.

The halls of Bag End are long and quiet in the pre-dawn gloom. Soon, the sun will rise. There is a chill in the air, and she can feel it even through her dressing gown, and she paces the halls in silence, and light spreads as she goes, where she lights the soft-burning lamps, and then she sets the candle down and crosses her arms over her chest. She rubs at her arms where they still feel tired and sore. Bag End is still so new, its rooms and its halls, with its round windows and its round halls. It doesn't feel right. Even after two long months, even knowing that its Master wants her there, it doesn't feel right. She wishes that it did.

It isn't that Rosie doubts that Frodo could do without his Sam, because she knows that their love speaks more than any words. She feels a stirring in her stomach, and she clutches at her belly, stumbling to the kitchen. Tea, what she needs is tea. It will soothe her nerves, and right now, that is what she feels like, a great bundle of nerves, frazzled and on edge.

In the kitchen, the air is cool and dry, and Rosie sets the candleholder down and builds up the kitchen fire in that flickering light. She puts the water on, pulls a chair close, and sits near to the fire, spreading her fingers out, flexing them, warming her hands. Sam will sleep until breakfast, and Frodo will come into the kitchen, then, right as they are sitting to their meal. The days are long and always seem to end the same.

When the water boils, she makes her tea, but it does little to settle her upset stomach. Her thoughts, and her gut, in turmoil, she races to the back door, unlatches it, and stumbles out into the pre-dawn darkness, falling to her knees. She's sick, right there, throwing up tea and little else, and she gags and sits back, tears in her eyes and a bitter taste in her mouth. She's ravenous, now, and she quakes, and it is a long time until she rises to her feet.

Her mind is racing as she walks back into the kitchen, dirt on her knees that she doesn't think at first to brush off. When she does, she's in the kitchen, back where it is now warm. Scowling, she goes back, standing in the cool air at the edge of the kitchen and the outdoors beyond, and cleans her long night gown off as well as she can. But there are smudges, and she'll need to throw it in the wash.

She wishes the time before morning wasn't so long, because what she needs right now is someone to talk to. But she won't go waking Sam, and she won't go waking Mr Frodo, so she has a cup of cool water, instead, and eats a small crusty loaf of bread hoping that it will stomach the butterflies storming in her stomach. It does help, and she eats again, laughing at herself in the still of the room. Through the kitchen window, she can see the lightness in the western sky. The sun is rising, the darkness is split. The last stars are shining like embers burning up in a pale but steady light.

She watches it, standing there, as the light grows, darker grey and then blue-grey and faint rose and gold are shining, too. The day comes, glorious, but quietly, like soft footsteps and a welcome hug. The day, waking early, tired and sore, a restless stomach, even, feels less like a problem, and more a trial, instead.

Sam will be rising, and Frodo after, and the new day has come. She starts breakfast, humming to herself, her worries for the moment put to rest. And that is an odd feeling, almost, because she isn't fully sure what those half-formed worries were meant to be.

The cool floor wears underneath her feet and Sam's footsteps whisper up to her, and warm arms circle her from behind. "Good morning, Rose-love," he murmurs, his voice thick and low, and Rosie laughs where his breath stirs her hair, tickles her skin. He kisses her neck, lingering, soft and sweet, and the rest of those worries burn up in the warmth of his body, pressed close.

This is Sam her Sam and she turns and embraces him, and they hold each other close, kissing like newlyweds are known to kiss. She laughs when she can, leaning back, and Sam's arms are still circled at her waist, keeping her close.

"My silly Sam," she says, and Sam is grinning as he nuzzles her cheek. He breathes in the scent of her curls and she tangles her hands in his nightshirt at the neck. "My silly, wonderful Sam," she murmurs, then, as he bends his head and kisses her throat.

She angles her head and closes her eyes, his lips slightly rough but somehow still smooth, and where his mouth touches skin, it tingles. "My lovely Rosie," he chuckles, and she giggles, and his mouth moves. It follows the curve of her neck and she lets her head loll back. He kisses her jaw, then, following the line of it to kiss the soft skin beneath her ear.

"Have you been awake long?" he asks, and his voice rumbles, and she shifts her head to better feel the reverberation of his voice where it presses against her skin. "You wake early these days."

"I do," she says, turning her head, and their lips find each other, as it seems is their way. They kiss, lightly, briefly, but there is such warmth shining in Sam's eyes and Rosie can feel it in the space between where they breathe. "I'd wake you, but I'd rather not. You always look like you're having good dreams."

"I do, Rosie-love, I do," he says, hugging her tight, and she sighs as he buries his face against her curls. "I dream of you, lass. You've flowers and ribbons in your hair."

"But isn't that how I always am?" she asks, amused, and Sam chuckles and presses a kiss to her hair, and then her temple, and then the point of her nose. Her hair is hanging loose, now, but by the day's end, there will be ribbons there, or flowers, or some other something, something bright and lovely, so she is mostly right.

"Aye, Rosie, almost," and there is laughing light in his eyes, fine lines at the corners as he smiles and his eyes crinkle, "but it's different, such as I can't explain it, when I dream."

"I'll take your word, Samwise Gamgee," she says, and her voice is low, and Sam chuckles and kisses her. She hears the sizzle of frying meat, and comes back to herself, and Sam, too, as he draws back and reaches around her to move the fry pan from the heat of the stove.

"Out to burn our breakfast, Mistress Rose," he says, grin?ing, and Rosie lightly slaps his arm and turns, reaching for the pan with a cloth and lifting it, forking out the freshly friend sausage onto a platter as Sam laughs and kisses her cheek.

"Care for a cup of tea, lass?"

"Aye, lad," Rosie laughs, grinning. "I'd like that, I would."

But he didn't notice the dirty smudges on her knees, and she's glad, because she feels that a cup of tea would do her good. The sausage sounds as if it would do well, too, and she forks a piece and eats it. "Sam-love, would you go and get us eggs for scrambling," she says, when he returns with her cup of tea, and he kisses her cheek and then her lips, nodding.

"Aye, lass. I'll bring in milk, too."

"Thank you, Sam. Dear of you," and she grins, laughing. And he's gone, then, back down the hall, to change and then he'll be out in the cool gloom of the morning air. When Rosie looks up, some minutes having passed, she sees her Sam walking down the path, taking his time as he does. The world is dew-coated, lovely, and her Sam seems radiant, the sparkle of the fresh day only heightening that glow.

And Sam is gone, then, turning beyond her field of vision, and Rosie continues to eat, idly, and by the time that Sam is back, dew-coated, too, his cheeks bright and his eyes shining, then she has finished more than half the plate. She laughs and Sam does, too, and they kiss and tussle, Rosie rocking back on her heels as Sam hugs her tight.

"My sweet Rose is hungry," he says, and she gasps, laughing once more.

"Aye, my Sam, I am."

"Sit yourself down then, love, and your Sam will finish the breakfast. Why not get out of these clothes" and he takes a hold of her dressing gown, pulling it up, and Rosie nods, touches his cheek.

"Aye."

But he still doesn't see it, and she goes down deep into the smial, into their room. It feels odd, here, and she doesn't know why. The air, maybe. Or maybe that all she hears is the silence creaking and her own soft breath. But she does change, shedding her clothing, and when she's changed and then walking back down the long hall, she sees Frodo standing there with morning light at his back, from his bedroom door, which is thrown wide open.

"Good morning, Master Frodo," she says, with a slight bob of her head and a slighter curtsy, a habit that she's been unable to break. Frodo laughs and that laugh is warm, alive, fresh like the clear morning air. Odd, then, that it causes such a stir in her stomach. She shifts on her feet and Frodo walks to meet her and they both walk into kitchen. Frodo grins.

"I see you're cooking for us, Sam."

"Aye, Mister Frodo," Sam says, and he's grinning, too. "Just a treat for my two most favorite hobbits."

"We're lucky ones," Frodo says, nodding, and Rosie can see where he's still tired, in the lines of his face, and wonders if he often wakes like her, tired and sore. Oh, but he's had a time, he has, and Rosie nods, finds her smile.

"Aye, we are," she says, and she goes to pour Frodo his cup of tea. But Sam stops her, shoos them both to sit, and he seems bright-eyed as he serves them, and Rosie tries to smile, and relax, though there is a new flight of butterflies whirling in her stomach, and she can almost feel them trying to escape outwards, through skin.

She tries hard enough because she can, and the tea is sweet and Frodo, sitting so close at her side, is warm. She turns her head, and looks, and wonders, and her heart aches suddenly, feeling that it might just break. What is her part in this? she wonders, a question that she cannot answer, no matter how hard she tries. What is her part in this, when she knows that there is no story greater than her Sam's and his Frodo's, and the love that they share.

And they love each other they do and she waited for Sam to come home, knew that he would, and she blushed and laughed when he asked her to marry him, and said: "Why did it take you so long?"

And her heart is sore, and tired, and Frodo's hand curls over hers. She turns, eyes widen, and gas?s softly at the understanding that she sees in his eyes. And he knows but why does he because she knows that he shouldn't know.

Their breakfast is served, and Frodo is quiet, and Rosie is, too, and Sam notices it, because how can he not, the smell of good food doing nothing to lull Rosie and Frodo from this quiet place they have found. "Rosie-love?" he softly asks. "Mr Frodo?"

Rosie turns, first, and Frodo does, after, his hand closing fully around Rosie's. Rosie feels her breath come short, and Frodo's hand is cooler than she would have thought, when all else seems so warm, and her heart skips a beat or three where there should have been four fingers and a thumb, but there instead is only three.

She doesn't get it, she doesn't understand, and she loves her Sam, she loves his Frodo, but she doesn't know how even that could be enough. But Sam comes round the table, then, bending down and kissing her brow. "What is it, Rosie-lass?" he asks, and Rosie sputters softly, not knowing what to say.

"I don't know," she says, shaking her head. "I woke up this morning, and it's still morning, now, I know, but then it wasn't even yet dawn, and and I don't know." She grips Frodo's hand, feels Sam squeeze her shoulder, and her nerves, already frazzled, just seem to fall away, all frayed at the edges, and she thinks that they are beyond repair.

"What good am I?" she asks, because she can't stop, and while she has always thought herself sensible enough, right now all she is certain of is a bubble of emotion that is working its way up through her chest. "What good am I, to you? To Master Frodo? I can't understand, I won't understand, and I don't want to understand you've told me your story, you have, but I oh, drat it all. I just don't know."

Sam's voice surprises her, stern, but Frodo quiets him, lightly saying his name. "My dear Rose," he says then, and Rosie turns and looks at him, dread in her eyes, and his voice is so soft. "We all needed something to come back to. Someone."

She doesn't know what to say, but then, she isn't surprised, and she smiles despite herself, and touches Frodo's cheek. "Are you saying you're glad you came home to me?"

"I am," Frodo says, and Sam hugs Rosie from behind, and Frodo squeezes her hand tight, and her heart isn't aching, now; its fit to burst.

"Oh I," and there are tears in her eyes. It isn't that she doesn't know what to say, then, only that there is too much that she could say, and she leans in and kisses Frodo soundly on the lips. She puts it there puts those words and those fears and her worries into that kiss, feeling Sam's hold tighten, feeling Frodo's grip slacken but then return, doubly strong.

"I think I feel a bit more like myself, now," she says, leaning back, and Sam laughs into her hair, at her ear, hugging her, and kisses her cheek.

And one hand held, and she's being held she feels that she fits.

"Our breakfast is cold now," Sam says, and Rosie grins, shaking her head.

"It's good enough, still, I'm sure. That's just how some things are."

Three days later, Rosie is given wise advice, and wonders why she didn't see it sooner but maybe what she needed was a sympathetic gammer's ear, and that could be it; and her emotions, and her nerves, and her stomach sickness, too, make all the sense of the world, and Sam nearly splits with joy when she tells him, and Frodo too, that their first (and she did mean just Sam and her, but Frodo is such a part of their life, now, that she can't not think of him, too) will be coming with the next spring.

Frodo says, with a smile that seems to glow, that it will be a girl.

And Rosie believes.