By: Dana
Summary: On a hot autumn day, Sam muses in the garden.
Characters: Sam, Frodo, Rose
Pairings: Sam/Rose
Rating: G
Warnings: Angst
Author's Notes: For Hyel's birthday. Not written with slash in mind, so bring your own sub-text, if'n you know what I mean.
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.

It's really too hot to work, but Sam appreciates the solitude, the silence that comes in the lull of the golden afternoon, when the sun shines brightest. It hasn't been raining much, no, and the days blend together in a haze of green and yellow and a rainbow of bright blossoms. The summer has been stretched wide, too thin, and the heat that came with the end of April and the beginning of May lingers; and its September, now, and there's no sign of it soon cooling down.

But the rain will come, and the days will grow chilly, it's just a matter of time.

But they've a while still 'til they would fear a drought. It's just one of those years, and the natural order of things seems a bit out of balance; kind of like the scales were tipped, kind of like some hobbits. They might be cracking, but a friendlier face could never be found.

Sam's heart suddenly pangs and he's brought back to the reality of the day; kneeling in the dirt, sweaty curls on his brow. He wipes at his errant hair, wishes for a cool drink of water. There is no birdsong in the early afternoon heat, and the silence is suddenly too much, and it bears down on his shoulders like some great burden, and Sam isn't sure that he can bear it with grace.

He rises and trudges to the path, crouching by his tools and reaching for the bottle of water that his sister Marigold always makes sure that he takes along. And he uncorks the bottle and takes a long drink, and it's cool but not cold and it takes the taste of dust away.

Sam sits back and wipes his brow once more, and the click of Bag End's front door has him swinging his gaze in that direction. Mr Frodo grins at him, sheepish, and walks out towards him with his hands behind his hand.

"Afternoon, Mr Frodo, sir," Sam says with a smile, corking the bottle and tucking it back into the pack.

"Good afternoon, Sam. Fine day, isn't it?"

Sam tilts his head to look towards his master, and Frodo is looking out towards the Party Field, the expanse of the Party Tree. Sam turns and follows the path of Frodo's gaze, and smiles as he nods.

"Aye, sir, if'n it isn't a bit hot for a day this late in September."

Frodo's smile stretches wide and he rubs at the back of his neck. "I remember a summer, back when I was living at Brandy Hall, and it was my birthday and it was hot enough to fry the sausage and eggs. And Merry thought that it was time for his big cousin Frodo to learn how to swim" His look turns wistful, sad, and Sam shudders at the thought. "Well, you can imagine how that turned out," Frodo finishes with a shake of his head, laughs out loud.

It's nice to hear Frodo's laugh, even if it's soft and bittersweet, and for some reason Sam thinks it odd that Frodo shouldn't; but has he laughed now as often as he has in the past? Sam just isn't sure, he can't remember.

And Sam rises up and Frodo exhales, humming under his breath. And Sam decides, then, that it certainly is a fine day. He might go so far as to say that it's the finest that he can remember, in a long line of years. And Frodo just hasn't been altogether the same, since Bilbo went away.

"It's too good a day to spend it working, Sam," Frodo says at length, and Sam spots the ink stains on Frodo's fingers, the dark spots on his collar and the cuffs of his shirt. He turns, serious, to Sam, but there's light in his eyes. "I propose a picnic down by the water. What do you say?"

"Well, I could hitch up the wagon"

"We could just take a walk."

"Do you think so, sir?"

"I know so, Sam."

"Well"

"I was thinking that it would be a good chance to read, Sam, and to listen to a story," Frodo urged, rocking back slightly, and Sam decided, then, that it would be an excellent use of the day.

"Aye, then, sir. Just let me clean up, and I can pack us a basket -"

Frodo's grin is wide enough to split his face, and his teeth flash white. "Already done."

Sam chuckles and bends to retrieve his tools. "You had this planned all along."

But Frodo has nothing else to say, and he smiles knowingly as he walks back into the darkness of Bag End's front hall.

And it doesn't seem like long, from them, 'til they've trekked down to the water; the day has cooled as the sun has traveled west, and Frodo has told Sam his favourites. But the stories of Elves, even when happy, always end sad.

Frodo looks up at the sharp cry of a bird, and a bemused smile slides over his lips. "Gulls? And so far inland"

And Sam follows the path of Frodo's gaze, to watch the distant white birds as they wheel in the blue above; and it's a shrill cry that propels Sam forwards, the sound of the waves against the rocky shore, and he wakes in the darkness, empty and alone.

For a moment, he believes that he is.

But he's not, and Rosie's arms encircle him, ground him, bring him out of the mist and maze of memory and dream. And Sam weeps, lets himself weep, and Rosie holds him and his salt tears kiss her skin.

He's stretched out too thin, he feels like he's going to break.

"There, there, Sam-husband, cry it all out," Rosie whispers, and Rosie is a rock to hold onto, a calm at the center of a storm. She's sweet smiles and bright laughter, she's life and she's love, she's almost everything that Sam has ever wanted and it's just not fair, Mr Frodo should be sharing her laugh, too.

"You'll feel better, love, the pain will dull."

But it's just too soon.

Outside, it rains.