Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins was in want of a tea companion. He had thought (foolishly) that adopting a nephew might give him better luck in such endeavours, as Frodo by all accounts enjoyed tea and conversation as much as any hobbit should, though not nearly as much as Bilbo himself. However, today Frodo had missed tea by a mile —by several miles to be more accurate, or several tens of minutes to be even more literal.
Bilbo was not worried about Frodo, no, he knew precisely where the lad was and what he was doing, which made his unannounced lack of presence ruder still. Bilbo was usually one to encourage the right amount of rudeness and impropriety in those who looked up to him (what was youth without some small scandal, after all?), but he drew the line when Frodo interrupted his tea plans.
The front door opened just as Bilbo was considering going to retrieve him from outside.
‘I’d feared you’d lost your way,’ Bilbo said. ‘Though an extraordinary feat that would be, starting from one’s own bedroom and having to take a perilous detour on your way to the kitchen, leaving you all turned around and upside down without your wits about you! Of course, that’s what must have happened to you, as I can see no other explanation for why you’ve been waylaid so.’
‘Oh sure,’ Frodo said, far too accustomed to these quips to bother getting offended. Very little in his comfortable everyday life distressed or vexed him to a serious degree. He began to pour himself some tea, which was nearly cold. Bilbo would let him find this out for himself. ‘I’m absolutely horrid for my lateness, you’re right. A crude mistake it was for me to dare to go outside and say good morning to our lovely gardener. It won’t happen again.’
Bilbo laughed. ‘I think you must say good morning to him more often than you do to me. I don’t think I’ve heard one of your good-mornings in nearly a week. I’ll have to have Sam tell me how they go.’
Frodo took a sip of his tea, grimaced slightly at its unideal temperature, and set it down as if he’d come to a completely unrelated natural decision to stop drinking it.
‘I am sorry, dear uncle,’ Frodo said with a self-satisfied smile, ‘for having friends.’
‘Friends! How disgraceful! How are you to be my heir if you are not an estranged hermit?’
‘I’ll manage somehow. If I’m such a dreadful disappointment, you may always replace me with another one of your many relatives, who are all, I expect, pining to inherit your fortune.’
‘I do jest, you know, Frodo,’ said Bilbo, remembering his parental role at the usual moment, that is, slightly later than he should have. ‘I wouldn’t have any other hobbit for company, despite your tardiness. And I’d sooner bequeath all my belongings to a dragon than let anyone take your place as heir.’
Frodo nodded his own appreciation and began to butter a scone.
‘So,’ Bilbo continued, ‘having got our usual greetings out of the way, may I inquire as to how Samwise is this morning?’
Frodo paused in lifting the scone to his mouth and coloured noticeably. Bilbo thought of a few ways he could poke fun at this, but he again recalled that he was, in theory at least, a mentor figure of sorts, so he kept quiet and pretended that he was not drawing comparisons between the shade of his nephew’s face and the cranberries in the scone he was trying to eat.
‘I daresay you could ask him yourself,’ Frodo ultimately said. He took a contented bite of the scone.
‘I daresay I would,’ Bilbo returned, ‘if you had not distracted him enough today.’
‘Please! As if you’re one to mind being a distraction!’
‘It’s true, I distract wonderfully. Distraction would have been my profession had I not been called upon to be a burglar first. But humour me, lad, and tell me something of your morning.’
‘I’m perfectly well, as is Sam,’ said Frodo. ‘He was telling me all sorts of things about plants and dirt and sunlight.’
‘Naturally,’ said Bilbo wryly. He had frequently witnessed Sam talking to Frodo about his work in the garden, and though Frodo always appeared absolutely rapt with attention, he never seemed to retain any of the factual information Sam shared with him. It was as though Frodo actively chose to believe that Sam worked with magic rather than trowels and watering cans.
‘He said something so nice,’ Frodo continued. ‘It was something about soil and how the future of every flower that’s to grow in spring is already written within it. I don’t think he realised how profound it sounded. I told him he should write poetry.’
‘Did you? And what did he say to that?’
‘He thought I was making a joke,’ Frodo admitted, unhappily. ‘I can’t see why.’
‘Not every gardener works for someone as sincere as you, my boy,’ Bilbo reminded him. ‘And I've noticed that, in keeping with the family way, you often find new methods of confusing the very notion of propriety. To me, this means you’ve grown exceptionally well. To Samwise, I’d venture to say this means he finds you exceptionally perplexing.’
‘I don’t mean to perplex him,’ Frodo said. ‘And I don’t wish to outrank him either. He’s my friend, Bilbo. My very close one, at that.’
This Bilbo knew well. There were few hobbits that Frodo talked with as much as Sam, and though this had initially seemed to be a relationship formed out of proximity alone, the two of them eventually began to well and truly like each other. Despite their different backgrounds and night-and-day-different families, they were somehow able to hold the liveliest of conversations without an ounce of discontent arising between them. A friendship that others might have grown out of in childhood had persisted after they’d both come of age, though Bilbo figured that he might be the only one who knew how close they really were. Frodo sung Sam’s praises to Bilbo more than to Sam himself, and Sam’s comments about Frodo, while honest and kind, were always dressed in at least five layers of excessive formality.
‘My most trusted friend,’ Frodo went on. ‘And yet I have to constantly remind him that he’s allowed to talk to me without fear of reprimand. Do you see the unfairness in it?’ Bilbo would have responded that he did, but Frodo did not leave any air in the room for a reply. ‘He won’t even call me my name! He did when we were young, but now it’s all “Mr. Frodo” all the time. And it took months for me to talk him down from “Mr. Baggins!” And he only agreed to that because there are two Mr. Bagginses, so for the sake of practicality, of course…Well, if anyone had deigned to tell me that friendship was so complicated, I’d have never tried my hand at it at all.’
‘That’s all well, but if Sam’s such a friend, why don’t you ever invite him in for tea?’ Bilbo challenged, hoping he might be able to relieve Frodo of his frustrations and subsequently gain more tea guests as a result.
‘And have my prying uncle overhear everything we say to each other?’ Frodo retorted with a slim laugh. ‘I’d rather not.’
‘I will simply have to pry at other junctures,’ Bilbo resolved. Frodo laughed harder, not seeming to know how much Bilbo meant it.
There was unfortunately not much to pry at in the following weeks, though upon taking his daily walks, Bilbo encountered Samwise Gamgee more than once. Three times, in fact, Bilbo observed him sitting under a tree and writing in a book. The third time, Bilbo decided to approach him. He attempted to make as much subtle noise as possible so as to warn Sam to look up, but the young hobbit was so entrenched in his writing that he started anyway when he found that Bilbo was right in front of him.
‘Mr. Bilbo, sir!’ Sam exclaimed, standing up immediately. ‘I promise I ain’t slackin’ on your time; Mr. Frodo’s sent me home for the day, y’see.’
‘I don’t see, Samwise,’ Bilbo observed with a good-natured chuckle. ‘He may have sent you home, but if my eyes still work the way they should, it doesn’t appear as if you’re there.’
‘I’ll go, if you like,’ Sam assured.
‘No, no, Sam, as you were,’ Bilbo said. ‘I’ve no business ordering you around when you’re relaxing. I was simply wondering what it is you’re writing.’
Sam held the book protectively against his chest. ‘Well, Mr. Frodo told me I should try writin’ poetry. I don’t think he was serious, but, well, sir, I’m tryin’ anyway, though I haven’t much profound to say.’
‘We’ve all something to say, Sam, profound or not. And I’d say it’s valiant of you to try your hand at a new form of expression in the face of such uncertainty,’ Bilbo said. ‘As you know, I’ve made up a few little songs in my time. Most are nothing too fanciful, but if you’d ever like me to look over your work, I’d be happy to offer guidance. I know how hard it can be in the beginning.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Sam mumbled. ‘But I don’t think ‘m ready to share with anyone just yet.’
‘All right, Sam, I’ll leave you to it then.’ And after an additional bid that Sam enjoy the day’s weather, Bilbo made good on his word.
A few weeks later, Bilbo was rewarded for his idleness with an optimal opportunity to pry, or simply to do some harmless eavesdropping, or less incriminating still, to only happen to overhear a few snippets of conversation that were occurring in his own home, which he could not naturally be expected to be absent from. He was veritably certain that Frodo did not know he was in the next room, but there was nothing whatsoever that he could do about the things Frodo did or didn’t know. He was tipped off to Frodo and Sam’s entrance into the sitting room by a light murmur of conversation, which he just so happened to clarify for himself by moving a little closer to the nearest doorway.
‘I should be on my way, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam said. ‘There’s much to be done in the garden, and unless you’d have somethin’ for me to do in here, I should get to makin’ m’self useful.’
‘Do you never get tired of usefulness, Sam?’ Bilbo heard Frodo say.
‘Not…not particularly, sir, no.’
‘Sit down why don’t you?’ Frodo’s voice came again.
After a short debate made up of several broken, yet polite, exchanges of phrase, Bilbo was led to believe that Frodo had convinced Sam that his taking a rest was perhaps not the worst thing in the world.
‘I’m not sure your family would like this much,’ Sam remarked. ‘You sittin’ here across from me and lookin’ at me like…well, like the way you are.’
‘My family!’ Frodo burst into laughter. ‘And to whom do you refer? My uncle Bilbo, who tells me I don’t invite you in nearly enough?’ –Bilbo smiled to hear Frodo’s mention of him– ‘Or maybe you mean my cousin Pippin, who swears that you’re better drinking company than I am?’
‘I mean the parts of your family that ain’t—’
‘Mad?’ Frodo provided eagerly.
Sam laughed loudly and immediately apologised. ‘I meant, that ain’t Bagginses or Tooks.’
‘Synonyms for madness, as is well known.’
‘I don’t think you’re mad, Mr. Frodo.’
‘Now that’s your biggest insult to me yet! I take pride in my madness, you know.’
If Bilbo hadn’t been so committed to not being discovered as a third party in this conversation, he would’ve walked into the room and shaken Frodo’s hand for being such a delightful successor to his legacy.
‘Why then, you’re the maddest hobbit I’ve ever met,’ Sam said. ‘You’re cracked through and through.’
‘Now you’ve got the idea of how best to appeal to me! I’m endlessly flattered.’
‘Glad to have brightened your afternoon,’ said Sam, this reply sounding, in Bilbo’s opinion, much more genuine than anything warranted by Frodo’s playful comments.
‘See now, isn’t it all right spending time with me?’ Frodo asked. ‘I’m not too horrible, I don’t think.’
‘Why, I never said you were, sir!’
‘That’s true, I won’t put words in your mouth. You just meant it was improper, doing this.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t be in here, Mr. Frodo. I’m not distinguished enough to be a guest of yours, and it ain’t like I live here myself. Rightfully, I should be doin’ somethin’ for you at the moment. Seein’ as I’m bein’ paid for my time. Oh, but I really shouldn’t talk of such things…’
‘I’ll answer each of your arguments with my own,’ Frodo began, unfazed. ‘I think you’re distinguished enough to be my guest, and no one else’s opinion on that subject is of any consequence. Next, your company’s good enough to pay for on its own, I happen to be lucky that you’re also a gardener. And about how you don’t live here, well, would you one day like to?’
Bilbo had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing and exposing himself. Frodo was clearly getting leaps and bounds ahead of himself, and Bilbo presumed that this was his own fault for not providing proper instruction about these sorts of things.
‘Would I like to live at Bag End, sir? I suppose that might be somethin’ to consider,’ said Sam, in perfect, practised ambivalence. He clearly could not parse out whether or not Frodo was joking.
‘Do you say that from a practical standpoint as my gardener, or an affectionate one as my friend?’ Frodo asked, his voice wavering in composure for the first since the conversation began.
‘Perhaps somewhat of both,’ said Sam, remaining neutral still.
‘All right! Pretend you don’t work for me,’ Frodo commanded, seeming a bit frustrated. ‘I’m just some regular hobbit you met on the street, and I ask you if you’d live with me. What’s your reply?’
‘I’d say no.’
‘You really would?’
‘Well, not to offend, Mr. Frodo, but I’ve just met you on the street. I don’t know who y’are. You could be right crazed for all I know!’
A wave of laughter overcame them both once more, and Bilbo took it as a cue to go tend to some other business knowing that the two of them would be all right in each other’s company. He enjoyed Sam's receptivity towards the ridiculous things Frodo tended to say, and furthermore, his knowledge that they were ridiculous. While others might have (and indeed, had in the past) done nothing but stare at Frodo trying to make sense of his jokes or just nodding and smiling their way out of a prolonged conversation with him, Sam, like Bilbo, saw merit in playing along.
Frodo might have convinced himself that this was politeness on Sam’s end, and though it was true that the lad was quite polite, Bilbo could tell that his smiles and laughs were always genuine. He had witnessed Sam attempting insincere politeness only a few times – mostly when the Sackville-Bagginses came to visit. The fact of it was, to Bilbo’s delight and Sam’s mortification, that he was not a very good liar.
***
‘You’ve a letter,’ Bilbo announced, tossing it onto the table in front of Frodo, who didn’t look up from his book. It was a Saturday, and in the absence of Sam, who didn’t work on Saturdays, he was entrenching himself in Bilbo’s library. Sometimes, Bilbo did find himself wishing his nephew got out more. A little societal fraternising couldn’t do him any harm. At the very least, it would make his books all the more comforting when he got home after hours of being tortured by civil conversations. It was how Bilbo had done it back in his own day.
‘I don’t read letters,’ Frodo said.
‘Too short?’ Bilbo guessed. The book Frodo was reading had to be at least six hundred pages long.
‘Too underhanded.’ He folded the book halfway, not committing to closing it quite yet. ‘I can’t remember the last time I got a letter from a relative that wasn’t in some way asking me for money or a marriage to one of their children.’
‘You can’t be sure it’s from a relative,’ Bilbo countered, even though he’d recognised the seal on the envelope and knew that Frodo wasn’t far off. ‘As a tangential fact, I won’t serve you breakfast unless you open your mail. You’d have to get up and cook your eggs yourself. It’d be dreadful for you.’
Frodo sighed, set down his book, glanced at the envelope, shook his head, and proceeded to open it in a manner that was agonisingly slow. He read it over as Bilbo made the eggs and toast while feeling proud of himself for his exceptional discipline.
‘A soirée in Buckland?’ Frodo questioned. ‘Why’ve I been invited to this?’
‘Does it say when it is or who else is attending?’
‘Next week. And practically anyone even remotely connected to us or the Brandybucks. There’s a whole list. It’s got a subheading that proclaims it’s exclusively for “the finest families in the Shire.”’ Frodo laughed sardonically. ‘Sounds a right bore if you ask me.’
‘You may have been right, dear boy,’ said Bilbo, handing Frodo his breakfast.
‘About what?’
‘Seeing as you’ve got an invitation in your hand and I haven’t, it seems someone, or multiple someones, are vying for your attention. You’re not technically a confirmed bachelor yet, so as far as these wealthy hobbits are concerned, your inheritance is still up for grabs.’ He winked mockingly.
‘Have I not done enough to prove myself as the completely un-marriageable sort?’ Frodo grumbled. ‘Can it really be such a conspiracy against me?’
‘More like a conspiracy for you, lad,’ Bilbo corrected. ‘High society seems to believe that you can still be saved from my corrupt and crooked influence.’
‘Luckily for us both, they’re wrong,’ said Frodo. He crumpled up the paper in his hand self-satisfactorily.
Bilbo waited until Frodo had taken a large bite of his toast to express his current thoughts on the matter.
‘You know, I might actually recommend that you attend this event.’
‘Arh you out uh your mine?!’ exclaimed Frodo, through a lot of toast. He took a moment to swallow, seethe, and try again. ‘Don’t answer that. I know you are. I just didn’t know you wanted to see me married off just as badly as everyone else.’
‘That’s not it, Frodo, of course not,’ Bilbo insisted patiently. ‘You know I want little else than for you to be happy. I only suggest you go because I think you could stand to pay a bit more attention to the relatives you do approve of. Your cousins Meriadoc and Peregrin will certainly be there, will they not?’
‘Sure, they will,’ Frodo relented.
‘Excellent, you get along with them?’
‘The two of them do appreciate good trouble-causing. So yes,’ Frodo smiled in a way that was slightly mischievous. He could never be absolutely mischievous if you asked Bilbo, because he was, at heart, too sweet for it.
‘And while you’re there causing trouble, if you’re looking to diminish your future postal intake, you might also happen to communicate in some way to the guests of this party that you’re in no position to share your fortune with any of them. Only if that is true of you, of course. I wouldn’t pressure you either way.’
‘All right,’ said Frodo, picking up his book again in a clear signal that he was done talking on this matter. ‘I’ll go. But you must promise to bear my neverending complaints and gripes both before and after.’
‘Don’t I always?’
Bilbo had him there.
‘Hm,’ was Frodo’s only reply.
***
‘It’s not that I’m ungrateful,’ Frodo reasoned.
‘No, sir,’ answered Sam distractedly. He was planting autumn bulbs and trying to get the spacing just right. He felt he might get it even more wrong now that Frodo had come out to watch him. Or not specifically to watch him, but to discuss some personal things while Sam continued to work, which subsequently led Sam to feel like he was being watched –a feeling that led to several other feelings. Nervousness, for one example.
‘I just object to social events that take place for nefarious reasons,’ Frodo continued. He was laying in the dirt. Sam had thought of asking him not to do that, not because he was in the way, but because if someone happened to walk by, they’d see him lounging around with his gardener and start to think all sorts of odd things about him. However, Sam was of course not going to say anything whatsoever, because it wasn’t his place to tell Frodo what to do, because Frodo wouldn’t pay any mind even if it were, and because this was the type of issue that came more from the Gaffer’s voice echoing in Sam’s head and less from Sam’s actually minding what was happening.
‘Do y’not like dancin’ and such?’
‘No, I do rather like it. I’m quite all right at dancing. There are just very few individuals attending this event that I’d like to dance with,’ Frodo clarified. ‘I can’t have a proper dance if I’m not fond of my partner.’
‘Well, even so, there’ll be some good food there I expect,’ said Sam, changing the topic so as to stop himself from picturing what a dance between the two of them might be like.
‘That’ll probably be the highlight of it. The one thing no hobbit can mess up at a party is the food, even if they are the most stuck-up and self-righteous sort of hosts.’
‘You’re a tough guest to please, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam laughed.
‘I’m not all that bad!’ Frodo said defensively. ‘I hope you don’t think poorly of me for saying all these cynical things. I’m just not keen on those who pretend themselves superior to everyone else. If you threw a party, Sam, I’d gladly come and I’m positive I’d enjoy myself. But you see, the difference is, you’re not trying to marry me for my family’s wealth.’
‘Um,’ said Sam. ‘Well, no, sir.’
‘My! I’m sorry, Sam.’ Frodo started to laugh and shake his head. ‘I’m not a very good friend am I? Coming out and disturbing you with my ranting and raving without even asking if you were free to talk! I admit I did get carried away, and you look quite busy.’ He sat up and brushed dirt off his sleeves. ‘Can I help you as a way of making up for it?’
‘Um,’ said Sam again, feeling even more flustered now that Frodo had mistaken his initial flustery for frustration and was trying to earn forgiveness for a wrong he hadn’t committed. ‘No, you’re all right, sir,’ he insisted. ‘You’re a better friend to me than any. Y’dont have to do my job for me on top of that.’
‘Yes, right, of course,’ said Frodo, sounding a bit disappointed. He stood slowly while Sam remained kneeling in the soil. ‘I shall leave you well alone, then.’
Sam wanted to say something like sir, you don’t have to go, your company is greater assistance to me than anything else could be , but he was fearful that it would sound desperate to an unprovoked capacity. He considered more neutral alternatives such as a pleasure talking with you, or even just good day, Mr. Frodo , said with a cheery inflection so as to not leave any sense of stiffness in their conversation, but by the time he had both determined what to say and worked up the courage to say it, Frodo had already gone inside and closed the door behind him.
Sam was left to plant his bulbs and think longingly about what his friendship with Frodo would be like if it was not so often confined within the fences of the garden.
***
The time leading up to Frodo’s trip to Buckland passed far more rapidly than he’d hoped it would, and before he knew it, he was sitting in front of a mirror looking at his own dismal face and wondering whether or not he’d like to admit to himself that he didn’t ever really know how to do his hair on formal occasions.
He was to take a small carriage to Brandy Hall in a few hours so that he would arrive in the evening, and then he would stay with his cousins for three days before returning.
The second part wouldn’t be so intolerable. Frodo liked the Brandybucks themselves; they were the family members he was closest to after Bilbo, and they tended not to mind Frodo conducting himself as he pleased, as long as he didn’t forgo basic manners (which he never did – he’d been born into gentry after all, despite his commitment to having a veritably strange personality and a fickle reputation).
He had a suspicion that he was a favoured relative among them because he could consistently be used as a point of comparison for his younger cousin Merry, much to the annoyance of Merry himself, who claimed that he was just as mature as Frodo, if not even more so.
Frodo could’ve gotten himself excited to see the Brandybucks, had it not been for the party that he was so resentfully attending. He hadn’t been to many soirées since he’d come to live with Bilbo. He’d been to countless festivals of course, which were always lively and full of good old-fashioned eating, drinking, and dancing. Frodo could fit in at a festival. But any gathering that had a guest-list mystified him. Where was the fun in having a party where everyone spent the entirety of the evening trying to prove they had more money, land, and social standing than everyone else? That was, at least, what he imagined high society was. He’d been apart from it long enough to not have any concrete guesses.
There was also the giant, looming fact that going to this event would make him seem eligible, even if he was attending for the purpose of disproving this very assumption. Frodo knew that no one could force him into a marriage, and that him being married or unmarried had no effect on his being in Bilbo’s good favour. Nevertheless, the idea that there were those out there who, without ever having met or gotten to know him, viewed him as something valuable they could obtain was a bit horrifying and a good deal demeaning.
He ran a brush through his hair a few times, which, if anything, made it look messier.
A knock sounded on the doorframe.
‘Hello, Sam,’ said Frodo brightly.
‘Don’t you look nice,’ Sam remarked. He was carrying a tray with a ceramic mug, which he set down in front of Frodo. ‘For the occasion, sir, I mean.’
‘Thank you, Sam,’ replied Frodo, truly flattered. For some reason, Sam’s opinion seemed worth more than that of any gentlehobbit Frodo was likely to meet that evening. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, peering into the mug.
‘Lemon water,’ Sam said. ‘I thought you might be wantin’ it for your nerves.’
Frodo lifted the mug to his face, letting the delightful-smelling steam warm his skin. It had an instant calming effect. He sipped it. It tasted sweeter than he’d expected, which led to a secret suspicion that Sam had also added in a dash of honey.
‘That’s lovely,’ Frodo admired. ‘My nerves are now well equipped, and I’m farther into your debt than ever.’
‘It’s my pleasure, Mr. Frodo.’
Frodo glanced at his pocketwatch. ‘I have some time left before I actually need to depart. Would you mind staying to keep me company for a while? I’ve got to take my mind off my predicament somehow, else I’ll worry myself into nothingness.’
Sam took a breath to respond, but Frodo interrupted before he could get a single word in.
‘You can say no, but if you say you shouldn’t talk with me outside the garden solely because it’s not proper, I’ll sack you on the spot, Sam Gamgee.’
Frodo knew he probably shouldn’t make jokes regarding the status of Sam’s job, but Sam needed to learn some way or another that Frodo would never actually want to get rid of him, no matter what he said or did. Besides, Frodo didn’t really have the authority to do anything, unless he wanted to leave Bilbo without a gardener and simultaneously ruin the relationship between the Bagginses and the Gamgees that had been going strong for multiple generations. Sam was unequivocally family, and he’d have to try very hard to excommunicate himself from Bag End.
‘I was gonna say sure, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam informed him, with a smirk.
***
Bilbo had been in town running some errands that morning, but he’d wanted to get home before Frodo left in case his nephew required any last minute advice or reassurance. However, when he stepped into the front entrance, the sounds of laughter echoing through the hall led him to believe that someone had gotten to the task before him.
He followed the noise to the parlour, where he saw a heartwarmingly comedic scene playing out before him.
‘See, you’re really all right!’ Frodo was saying. His right hand was clasped in Sam’s, his left arm around the other’s waist, ostensibly leading him in a dance.
‘Ain’t no way it’s supposed to be this fast!’ Sam exclaimed, teasing, as Frodo spun the two of them around the room a bit less than gracefully. He appeared to be clinging to Frodo’s shoulder for dear life. He was also laughing so hard that there were tears in his eyes. ‘Sir, I’m gonna trip over you if you don’t slow down!’
‘That’s defeatist language, and I won’t stand for it!’
Sam, at this moment, had turned enough to face the entrance of the room, and upon making wide eye contact with Bilbo, released his hold on Frodo. Not expecting a sudden stop, Frodo stumbled and was sent careening onto the sofa, where he half-sat (half-sprawled) looking bewildered until he too noticed Bilbo’s presence and then proceeded to give him the acknowledgement of a red-faced wave.
‘Entertaining yourselves, lads?’ asked Bilbo good-naturedly, not being able to resist poking a little fun on this occasion.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Sam. He ran a hand through his hair in a self-conscious effort to tidy it.
‘And to you, Sam,’ answered Bilbo fondly. ‘I hate to take your dance partner from you, but I believe he’s shortly wanted elsewhere.’ Frodo aimed a pointed scowl at him.
‘Don’t shoot the messenger, dear boy! I’ve only seen the carriage that’s to pick you up coming down the lane a moment ago, and the driver should now be waiting patiently for you outside. We mustn't keep him, else the Brandybucks might rescind some of their generosity towards you.’
‘Right,’ said Frodo. He stood and straightened his vest as bitterly as one possibly could. ‘I’m off to keep my word, or whatever noble nonsense.’
After gathering the luggage he would need for his stay in Buckland, he gave Bilbo a side hug and kissed his cheek. He then looked at Sam with an expression that implied he wanted to repeat the gesture with him, if not intensify it, but he finally settled for shaking his gardener’s hand and saying ‘Don’t become a bore while I’m gone, for I shall have lots of bizarre things to tell you when I get back, and it’d be a pity if you gained sense in my absence.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,’ responded Sam.
‘For the sake of all that is good, Frodo, you’re only leaving for three days,’ Bilbo reminded.
‘And I will dearly miss you, uncle.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Bilbo, practically herding Frodo out the door. ‘I’ll miss you as well, but you best get gone now so I can start on my missing you as scheduled.’
‘I shall dream of our reunion!’ shouted Frodo as he made his way down the hill. In an instant, Bilbo and Sam were watching the carriage drive into the distance.
‘I do hope he doesn’t make too much trouble for you,’ Bilbo commented offhandedly. ‘He can be cumbersome at times, despite his loving nature.’
‘Oh no, sir,’ Sam insisted. He stared off at the spot on the horizon where the carriage was disappearing. ‘He’s never too much for me.’