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Title: Labour Pains
Author: Aratlithiel Summary: Sam chooses the worst times to heal the Shire. Category: General/Humour Rating: PG
A/N: Thanks, as always, to Willow-wode, Elanor Gardner and Trianne for those little things that make a fic better. |
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March 15, 2007
~*~
LABOUR PAINS
~*~
It took every fibre of will Frodo possessed not to throw himself bodily in front of the door. Instead, he trotted alongside Sam, uncomfortably reminding himself of an anxious dog that hadn't been let out in far too long.
"What do you mean, you're going?" he asked with as much control and as little squeak as possible. "You can't just go!"
"I'm sorry, sir," Sam replied, dropped his pack to the floor and reached for his cloak. Frodo wilfully restrained himself from throwing a full body-tackle. "It can't be helped. Gardening emergency, you know."
He said it with such an air of nonchalance that Frodo narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"Gardening emergency."
Sam nodded and swung his cloak about his shoulders. "Aye, sir."
"You've made that up," Frodo told him. "There is no such thing as a gardening emergency."
Sam stopped in the act of reaching down for his pack, peered at Frodo with wide, innocent eyes. "O'course there is, sir, else I'd not have said it."
Frodo's eyes narrowed further and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Pansies running amok and threatening the neighbours, are they?"
A sardonic look from Sam. "No," was his short response. "The runoff has started and there's a thatch of alder saplings up Overhill way as is going to get flooded if I don't dig them up and move them. I'm told they didn't do so well over the winter and I'm thinking they might need a wee dose of dust while I'm at it."
He patted his breast pocket, which bulged a bit with what Frodo guessed was Sam's little box. Frodo was still not convinced.
"There's quite a nice growth of alders over to Rushock Bog," he said, still eyeing Sam keenly. "Some of them up to their knees in water, because, as I said, they live in a bog. And they've always looked quite happy to me."
"And exactly what do you know about trees… sir?"
Frodo didn't really care much for the patronising smirk Sam was giving him. Frodo's eye twitched and he purposefully squared his shoulders, said with confidence, "I know the part with the leaves goes on top," and oh, that hadn't come out nearly as well as it had sounded in his head.
A roll of the eyes from Sam and he wasn't even trying to hide it now. "That's as may be," Sam said with an obvious show at patience. "And grown alders do tend to like their feet wet. But saplings ain't as strong, which should make sense to anyone with half a brain--" He paused and gave Frodo a bit of a glare; Frodo ricocheted it right back at him. "--and if we have another freeze, they're like to get snapped in half and we can't afford to lose one more tree."
Frodo stared at Sam then, his gaze still chary. "I can look that up, you know," he answered after a moment. "I've all sorts of gardening books about."
"You should do that, sir." Sam stooped again to retrieve his pack.
Frodo abandoned the calm, commanding façade, because it apparently wasn't calm and definitely not at all commanding and it wasn't exactly working anyway. And anyway, he was close to panic now.
"Sam, you can't go, not now! Don't you realise that your wife is… Rosie is…" He sputtered, flapped his hands about. "Well, she's…" Curved a hand over his stomach. "You know!"
Sam lifted an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quivering, and if he dared grin, Frodo was going to fatten his lip for him.
"Pregnant, sir?"
"With child," Frodo retorted, twitched a little.
"Well, you don't say," Sam answered. "I wonder how that happened?"
Frodo wished for the power to shoot fire from his eyes; as it was, he'd have to settle for what Pippin called The Glare. He levelled it at Sam, teeth clenched.
"I'm sure I couldn't say," he grated. "Because shortly after the two of you moved in, I took to sleeping with a pillow over my ears."
Sam had the decency to blush. "Now, sir--"
"And arsy comments from gardeners aside, her time is coming 'round too soon for you to go traipsing to Overhill."
"She ain't due 'til Astron, Mr. Frodo," Sam argued.
"Oh, and these things always happen when they're supposed to, don't they?" Frodo didn't care that his voice was getting high and thin -- the stakes were too dear for such things to matter. "It's almost mid-Rethe already and--" He stopped, regarded Sam with a leery eye. "Sam, you didn't have to get married, did you?"
Sam blinked, took a small step back. "Well, 'course I did, Mister Frodo," he said slowly. "You ask a lass to marry you and you sort of have to marry her then, don't you? Provided she's said yes, o'course."
It wasn't what Frodo meant and he was pretty sure Sam knew it. "Not necessarily," he sniffed.
Sam raised his eyebrows, quite deliberately inspected the buckles on his pack. "Well, I suppose if you've had an entire bottle of blackberry brandy all to yourself and propose to all seven of the Heathertoes sisters at once, then they couldn't--"
"Every single one of those lasses is bloody gorgeous," Frodo defended. Paused, shrugged. "And it was very good brandy and so what if I had a few, and you're avoiding the question, Sam."
"Yes, I am," Sam replied and swung his pack over his shoulder. "A gentlehobbit don't answer a question like that." He lifted an eyebrow at Frodo, said pertly, "Nor does a gentlehobbit ask it."
"He does when his gardener is trying to skip out and leave him with his wife, who just happens to be extremely… well, very… very much…"
"Pregnant."
"Yes, that." Frodo sighed. "You're right, it's a rude question, but if you did… you know, have to get married, that would put the due date even closer, you see, and I'm really--"
"We didn't have to get married, sir," Sam told him, smirked a little.
"Oh." Frodo nodded, breathed a tiny bit easier. "Well, that's good news, at least. Still, though--"
"And I ain't skipping out, sir, only just going off for maybe a few days, is all."
Sam hadn't looked at Frodo when he'd said that. Frodo's eyes narrowed again.
"A few days?"
Sam was examining his fingernails. "Maybe a week," he muttered.
"A week?!"
"Mayhap a fortnight," he furthered, voice low and small.
Frodo leaned against the wall. "You can't!" he insisted.
"I have to, sir. Who else, if not me?"
Frodo threw his hands up. "Well, what about your father? Surely he knows how to dig up a few saplings!"
"With his rheumatiz?" Sam shook his head. "He'd never get a dandelion uprooted, the way his hands are anymore. And anyway, if I gave him my box of dust, he'd likely try to snort it or smoke it and there ain't that much left."
"But, Sam, you--" Frodo stopped, grimaced. "Snort it? Really?" Frodo shuddered a little and wondered why his nose suddenly itched. He shook his head, pressed, "Sam, you can't do this, honestly. I've no idea what to do in such a situation and if she went early--"
"Sir, she ain't due for four whole weeks and maybe closer to six. I'll be back in two at the most. And I'm given to understand that most lasses go late with their first. Why Widow Rumble says she might not even pop until late-Astron, so there's really nothing to worry about."
There was no shame anymore -- Frodo was desperate. "And I tell you, Sam, you cannot go off now and leave your expectant wife alone! I won't have it."
"Well, she won't be alone, sir -- you'll be here."
"It's the same thing!"
Wait. That hadn't come out right, either.
"You'll be fine, Mister Frodo," Sam assured him, even went so far as to pat Frodo's shoulder; Frodo supposed he should be grateful that the pat had not been to his head. "Rosie's a good, strong lass and I'm thinking she'll be taking care of you, moreso than the other way 'round."
Considering the pat and the condescending smile that went with it, Frodo wasn't quite sure how to take that one. "I'm not worried about taking care of her, Sam, I'm worried that--"
"Pardon me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help but overhear." Rosie's soft voice came from behind him and, already on edge, Frodo jumped, spun about to face her and hoped he didn't look guilty as well as terrified. But Rosie only smiled a little, said, "Please don't worry, Mister Frodo. I promise not to go into labour until Sam gets back."
Frodo blinked, tilted his head. "Can you really do that?" Rosie blinked back, raised her eyebrows with a little smile; Sam snorted and Frodo turned on him, glared some more. "What? You never know unless you ask, do you?" He turned back to Rosie. "Can you?"
Rosie's smile broadened to a grin. "No, sir, I'm sorry, but not really." Frodo deflated a little and Rosie turned sympathetic. "But Sam's right: I'm not due for at least six weeks and he'll be back in two or less. And I'm feeling fine -- fit as a brood mare, honest."
Frodo had actually begun to relax until the 'brood mare' comment. "But, what if--"
"If it starts early and if anything goes wrong, I've the Widow just down the Row and my mum's only a quick cart-ride away. Either one of them can be here within the hour and all you'll have to do is send for them."
"And you'll tell me if I should?" Frodo asked.
"Well, 'course I will, sir."
"No, I mean the second you think something might be happening?"
"Certainly."
"No, really, the second something happens."
"Absolutely."
"No, I really, really mean it, the second--"
"She'll tell you, Mister Frodo," Sam cut in with a roll of his eyes then he twinkled at Rosie and bussed her on the cheek, gave her a squeeze. "My Rosie's a good lass, never you worry. Aren't you, love?" Rosie grinned and blushed.
"Well, I know she's a good lass, Sam, the finest, if you want to know, and there was never a question or doubt. I never meant to imply--"
"Of course you didn't sir," Rosie told him, "and I didn't think otherwise."
"Right," Frodo agreed. "Good. Because I'm really only concerned that--"
"Mister Frodo," Sam interrupted, lifted an eyebrow, and why wasn't anyone letting him finish a bloody sentence, anyway? "Mayhap I could say goodbye to my wife now?"
Frodo looked from one to the other, shrugged. "Well, of course. Certainly. Go right ahead."
Rosie and Sam only stared at him and now Rosie's eyebrow went up, too. They looked expectant, like they were waiting for him to do something, though what he was supposed to do, Frodo couldn't--
Oh.
"Oh!" He flushed, cleared his throat. "Sorry. Of course." He edged away from the door. "I'll just, um…" Coughed. "Right. Just… you know… carry on." And he slipped past them and headed down the hallway.
It wasn't until he was already down the tunnel and leaning against the closed door of his study, telling himself to breathe deeply and evenly, that he realised he'd just been very neatly and rather blatantly patronised into allowing his gardener to leave him with his very pregnant wife for two whole weeks. Frodo closed his eyes and proceeded to methodically bang his head against the door. With any luck, he'd knock himself unconscious and by the time he woke up, Sam would be back.
~*~
The first week went better than Frodo had expected. With the exception of the occasional crying-bout (Rosie -- not Frodo, though he was tempted once or twice), the worst of it was a sudden realisation on Frodo's part that pregnant people had rather startling mood swings.
"You've not eaten all day, Mister Frodo. Why don't you let me make you some tea and toast?"
"Oh, no, Rosie, please don't go to any bother. I can certainly make my own toast, you don't have to wait on me, you know."
A long pause as Rosie bent her head, stared at her toes. Then a sniff and a choked little sob. "You don't like the way I make toast?"
Well, then. Bugger.
"Oh, no! No, no! I love the way you make toast! Honest. Yes, please, I would dearly love it if you would make me some toast."
"You don't have to say that, Mister Frodo. You don't have to try and make me feel better about it, I know I burnt it up fairly well last time."
'And bloody well almost took the kitchen with it,' Frodo nearly said, but Rosie sniffed again and his heart turned to mush.
"Everyone burns toast once in a while, Rosie, don't be so hard on yourself. And I'd really like some, now that you've mentioned it. I adore the way you cut off the crusts and you always spread just the right amount of jam on the bread."
Another pause, then: "Never said anything about jam," was the quiet mutter as Rosie stomped out of the study and towards the kitchen. "Offer toast and suddenly he wants jam, never satisfied, bloody males, 'Rosie, fix me this; Rosie, fetch me that,' they're all alike, every sodding one of them…"
And thus, Frodo had learned the hard way, that when a Mood Swing was in progress, you just couldn't say the right thing. He never did get the toast. Or the tea.
She hated when he hovered; that was the second big lesson. He tried not to, but she was so small and her belly was… well, it was huge, like she'd swallowed a sodding pumpkin, and she always looked like she was about to topple over. And he might not know much about pregnancy and birth, but he did know that toppling was not a good thing for pregnant ladies. Plus, she always looked so tired, so he tried to get to the chores and such before she did so she didn't end up taxing herself, but learned very quickly that chores were somehow inter-woven with the Mood Swings. The first time she went to wash the dishes and found them already done, she'd burst into tears; the second time it happened, she didn't speak to him for an entire day. So, Frodo stopped racing to the chores, but he couldn't stop himself from watching her while she did them, just to make sure she didn't have to reach too far or climb up on something to fetch a mixing-bowl or some such. She hated it and he knew she hated it, but he would not be responsible for her overdoing it and hurting herself. Or -- stars forbid -- sending her into early labour.
So, he took to spying from doorways or the shadows of the hall. Until she caught him daydreaming and walked right into him and she screamed so loud he couldn't hear right for the rest of the night. Not that it mattered; she wasn't talking to him again anyway. For two days that time.
He also learned a thing or two about cravings. Like, for instance: when a pregnant lass has a craving, the ability to conceive of the fact that not everyone has that particular craving at that particular time, apparently disappears, along with her ability to hang onto a mood for more than five seconds.
And it wasn't that Frodo disliked chipped beef, but there were only so many ways it could be prepared without a person's tastebuds rebelling at the fact that just because it might be garnished with potatoes and carrots and squashed all together into a loaf that tried very hard to look like a pork roast, it was still just chipped beef trying to look like a pork roast. His tastebuds weren't fooled and after the ninth meal in a row -- and yes, he'd counted -- neither was his digestive system: it mutinied and quite dramatically and Frodo spent a horrible day alternating between bed and the loo. When Rosie came into his bedsmial with a covered plate, Frodo actually wondered how hard it might be to feign coma.
All soft hands and gentle voice and tender care, and her cool hand really did feel quite nice on his clammy forehead. And when she took the napkin off the plate, Frodo almost wept with relief.
He finally got his toast.
And he wasn't about to argue with her when she informed him of the date (13 Rethe, and really -- who knew?) and remarked that it was such a shame the Anniversary still came back to haunt him so. He just sort of nodded noncommittally, tried to look pathetic (which wasn't very hard) and closed his eyes, pretended to faint, until she went away. Because people may have been calling him 'mad' and 'cracked' for years, but he was not about to start proving it by disagreeing with a pregnant person in the throes of Mood Swings.
After that, the word 'craving' took on a whole new meaning for Frodo. It was no longer a harmless little two-syllable word that meant one had a bit of a wish for something in particular; now the word had grown, loomed in his mind in big, bold capital letters dripping with threat.
CRAVING.
And when Rosie said it, no matter how sweet her voice or calm her demeanour, one had to make the snap-decision as to whether or not to run. Except Frodo had never been good at snap-decisions. When Bilbo had asked him to come and live at Bag End, Frodo had sat down and thought about it. For weeks. When Gandalf had mentioned that it might be better if a certain Ring were dropped into a fiery pit of lava, rather than sitting quietly in a Certain Someone's pocket, Frodo had pondered over that one for months. And when Rosie happened to mention one day that she was craving candied sweet potatoes, Frodo didn't get up immediately and run as he should have done; instead, he thought about the fact that it was Rethe and sweet potatoes had been out of season since Winterfilth. He thought about how Bag End's own rootcellar was almost barren of everything but a bushel or two of wrinkly potatoes with more eyes that potato, and a handful or two of hairy carrots. He thought about how the last time he'd gone to market to try and find some late-winter apples because Rosie had 'a bit of a hankering for a nice tart', every single owner of every single shop, stall and cart had laughed at him and told him he was daft. He couldn't prove it, but he was pretty sure they'd got together as he was leaving to laugh some more and point at him as he retreated from the square, too.
So, he weighed the prospect of wasting a day at the Market searching for non-existent sweet potatoes, and subjecting himself to more ridicule in the process, against the prospect of another few days of either being snapped at for breathing too loud or trying to coax Rosie out of her room or the loo, where she usually went to cry after something he'd said had come out wrong. Again. He weighed the fact that Rosie was lovely and really did take good care of him, when she wasn't being completely insane, against the fact that nobody -- ever -- came into his study to point and laugh at him (except sometimes Pippin, but he hardly counted) and why should he leave a nice cosy fire and comfortable couch for that? He weighed the fact that there seemed to be absolutely nothing he could do right these days and even if he did manage to find a stray sweet potato somewhere, it would likely end up being the wrong colour or size or something and he faced the real possibility that it may in fact end up shoved into his ear or down his throat, or maybe even some other, less-attractive-sounding orifice.
Decided that there was no way in the world he was going to brave the residual ice and biting winds of Rethe to hunt down sweet potatoes, no matter how many times Rosie sighed despairingly. Realised as he was putting on his coat and searching for his scarf that he might look like a hobbit, but was in reality a giant ball of mush in a hobbit suit. Because one pout from Rosie and bugger all if Frodo didn't find himself doing metaphorical backflips and handstands to try and turn it to a smile. Or leaving his warm, toasty home for the hostile den of ridicule that was the Trewsday Hobbiton Market.
He hadn't realised before that shopkeepers had such twisted senses of humour, but after he'd been sent along to the next stall for the fifth time with a, 'I think I saw some in Mrs. So-n-so's basket,' and had his withering hopes dashed yet again when Mrs. So-n-so peered at him with a twinkle and a not-quite-subtle roll of the eyes, Frodo understood that shopkeepers -- apparently as a whole -- got their amusement by watching the Master of the Hill reduced to bumbling about the Market, begging for random tubers. Nonetheless, he kept looking and asking, because Rosie wanted sweet potatoes and by-bloody-damn, Frodo was not going to go home and explain that he'd arrived empty-handed because he'd been duped into being the Market's free entertainment for the afternoon.
It was past afternoon tea when he finally checked the very last stall and reluctantly started home. He didn't give up, though; he was Endurance beyond Hope, after all, and trekking halfway across the world was nothing to facing the Wrath of a Pregnant Person Denied Her Craving. He stopped at every cottage and burrow on his way back, endured the raised eyebrows as he asked the mistress of each home if she wouldn't happen to have an errant sweet potato lying about somewhere, and ignored the snickers as he walked away, still empty-handed.
Number Three was his last try and wouldn't it just figure that the last-ditch hope was the one that actually came through, and why hadn't he thought to ask the Gaffer first, anyway? Nit. The hobbit was only the acknowledged local authority on roots and tubers, after all, and Frodo was torn between whacking his head against the door of Number Three and snogging the old hobbit when he'd smiled and said, "Why and I surely do, Mister Frodo. Was goin' to make the Widow a nice pie out of 'em, seein' as how she was so good-- er… never mind." And Frodo couldn't have been more grateful that the Gaffer had stopped there, because he'd long suspected that the Gaffer and the Widow were more than just neighbours and he really had no earthly desire whatsoever to find out exactly what it was the Widow had been good at. "Anyways," the Gaffer told him, coughed, "I'd say a pregnant lass' craving ought to trump… um… that." And he'd handed over not one, but three fat sweet potatoes; slightly wrinkled and a bit soft, to be sure, but sweet potatoes they were, and Frodo did kiss him then. He supposed he was lucky that the Gaffer only chuckled at him and didn't clout him for his cheek.
He arrived back at Bag End just before dusk, triumphant and grinning. "Rosie!" he called from the door, tossed his coat and scarf to their respective pegs and arrowed through the tunnel to the kitchen. "Rosie!" he cried when he found her there, "Look! I've found sweet potatoes!" He half-expected a burst of trumpets and the parting of clouds. He pranced (yes, he had to ruefully admit that it was indeed an actual prance) over to the pot rack and took down a saucepan, set it in the basin and pumped some water into it. "Now, you just sit right there and I'll get them cooked and candied for you in no time, won't that be nice? Let's see, I'll need that molasses and I think the sugar--"
"Don't go to any bother, Mister Frodo," Rosie said.
Bother? Getting them was the bother. Getting them had been near-torture, in fact. Cooking them was nothing at all, by comparison.
"No bother, my dear," Frodo answered lightly. "It won't take very long at all and they'll be done in plenty of time for supper. Speaking of which, what shall we have tonight? We've that lovely smoked ham down in the cold-cellar and that always goes nicely with sweet potatoes, don't you think? And I think there's some of those beets you like still down there and I could make the wheat bread with the honey-butter that Sam's always on about--"
"I don't think--" Rosie said, then bolted up and ran from the kitchen with a whimper.
Frodo just stood there, pot-in-hand, and watched her go, his mouth hanging open. Wait, see, absolutely un-bloody-fair! He'd done a good thing. He'd come up with sodding sweet potatoes, when sweet potatoes were impossible to find, and it would have been no less miraculous if he'd gone and pulled them from out his ears. And yet still he'd managed to somehow send her running from the room, weeping.
Maybe she was angry because he'd started to cook supper? Or maybe -- oh, no! Had he forgotten to put the seat down in the loo again?
He was still standing there gaping when she came back, white-faced and a little shaky, with a rueful smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. All right, not weeping at least -- she'd been tossing her biscuits. Perhaps the chipped beef had finally caught up with her, too, and he couldn't really be blamed for that, could he? Well, he supposed if a way could be found to blame him, Rosie would find it, but still.
"I'm sorry, Mister Frodo," Rosie said, glanced to the pot in Frodo's hand and blanched a bit more. She looked away with a wince. "Could you maybe…" She made a little shooing gesture with her hand. "Bin those or something, can't you? I can't even look at them."
Frodo stared. Looked from Rosie's white face to the pot and back again.
Bin them? After what he'd gone through to get them? Why didn't she just stab him in the heart while she was at it?
"But… but you… I…" He looked again to the saucepan, held it out. "But sweet potatoes!"
Rosie leapt back as though Frodo had just thrown a wet cat at her. "Please, Mister Frodo!" Then her face crumpled and she sniffed.
Frodo's shoulders slumped. He was mush again. He slouched over to the basin, dumped water and sweet potatoes both, then calmly hung the pot back on its hook on the rack.
A long, deep breath, then: "Why don't you go rest in the parlour, Rose?" he said. "I'll bring you some nice ginger tea to settle your stomach."
Rosie let out a little sigh of relief. "Thank you kindly, sir. I'm sorry to be such a bother." She sniffed again.
And how was it that those tiny little sniffles made him feel two inches tall?
"No bother at all, Rosie." Frodo forced a smile, crossed the kitchen to give her shoulders a squeeze. "It was nothing, really. Just a trip down to the Gaffer's, was all."
In the freezing cold, all bloody day, being the brunt of vegetable humour and almost finding out things I really don't want to know about what the Gaffer and the Widow do with their spare time. And bugger all, but I think now I want candied sweet potatoes!
Rosie slipped a quick kiss to his cheek, said, "Thank you, sir," then waddled off in the direction of the parlour.
And while the kettle was sputtering, Frodo sneaked down the tunnel to his room and secreted the sweet potatoes in the bottom of his wardrobe. Because the way things had been going, she'd likely want them for breakfast.
"Do you know what I'd really like?" Rosie asked him as he arrived in the parlour with her ginger tea. "Strawberries!"
Frodo was actually quite proud of himself for waiting until after she'd gone to bed to lock himself in his study and bang his head against the door some more.
Anyway, that had been days ago, and Sam's fortnight was almost at an end, which meant that Frodo's sentence was almost at an end as well. He hated to think of it in those terms; Rosie really was the very best of lasses and she couldn't help it if pregnancy too closely resembled insanity at times. And he'd only had to live with it for less than two weeks; poor Sam had apparently been bearing the brunt of this for months, and Frodo'd had no idea. He resolved to pour Sam a nice snifter of his best brandy when he got home and toast his reserve. Right after he got done punching him in the nose.
"'She'll be fine, Mister Frodo,' he says. 'She'll be taking care of you,' he says, blahblahblah." Frodo shook his head, growled. "I could use some taking care of after this, I tell you, afraid to go into my own kitchen, for fear that I might make her start crying over how steam rises when the kettle boils, or stars forbid she asks me one more time if she looks fat, because I just don't know--"
"Mister Frodo?"
Oh, buggerybollocks.
Caught.
Frodo cringed, slowly peered up from the desk to see Rosie leaning in the doorway, her face twisted into a mighty frown.
Talking to himself -- out loud, naturally, because Frodo never did do anything by halves, did he -- and now caught, caught, caught. Blast and buggery.
"I'm sorry to disturb your writing, sir."
Frodo tried not to look too guilty. "Not at all," he said as smoothly as possible and pretended that he'd actually been doing something. The truth was, he'd finished the Book last week; he'd only been using the excuse to hide in the study at every opportunity, when he was taking a break from hovering. His eyes flicked over to the wall behind the door. He hoped she had no cause to look back there, since he'd been using it more or less as a dartboard when he got bored and there were at least a score of pens (he didn't have real darts) sticking out of the wood panels. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, sir…" She breathed in, gave a wobbly little smile. "It's time."
Frodo blinked, turned his eyes to the clock on the desk. "Half past four," he replied with a nod.
Well, that wasn't so hard, right? She could hardly berate him for the time, could she? Well, she could, but--
"No, sir -- I mean it's time."
All right, he had to tread carefully here. She didn't really need an excuse to take something he said and twist it 'round until he looked like the worst cur that ever roamed Middle-earth, but he wasn't about to make it easy, either. Best he keep his responses short and agreeable.
"Right." Frodo nodded again. "Time. Half past four."
There. Only five words and he was keeping his smile light and pleasant. There was absolutely nothing in the world that could be offensive about anything he was saying or doing right now. He was getting rather good at this, actually, and he'd only needed a week and a half for the learning-curve.
So…
He frowned.
So, why was she crying?
"No, sir," Rosie repeated and now her voice was shaky. "I mean, it's time. You know -- Time!" And she patted her belly.
It was when the word was put together with the gesture that reluctant understanding began to dawn on Frodo. And when it did, he felt his stomach drop and his limbs go loose.
Time.
Right.
Time.
"No," he said and his voice sounded just as shaky as Rosie's had done. "No, it's still only Rethe and you're not having it until Astron."
There. That should fix it. It wasn't Time yet and Frodo had Spoken. All done. No babies being born today, not at Bag End, because this was his burrow and he'd said so -- he'd heard it himself -- and he was the Master, after all. That meant people had to do what he said, right? Master -- that's what the word meant. He could even look it up and prove it. There had to be a book of lexicon about here somewhere and he was pretty sure that if he looked it up, it would say, Master: one to whom people must listen when he speaks and if the Master says 'no babies today, thank you,' then there will be no--
"I think it's got its days mixed up, if you understand," Rosie told him.
And Frodo was alone with a pregnant Rosie, after Sam had sworn that there was absolutely no possibility that she would be having this bairn before he got back. Bloody traitor. Bloody rotten stupid bleeding sodding traitor! Frodo mentally took back that brandy and added a swift knee to the stones to go with the punch in the nose.
"No, no," Frodo insisted. "You don't understand. It's impossible, you see." He counted on his fingers, held them up as proof. "It's still four weeks away!"
This time, Rosie glared. "Shall I hold it in for you, sir?"
Frodo's eyebrows went up. "Can you do that?"
Because, as he'd told Sam, you never know unless you ask.
The glare turned to a scowl and Rosie rolled her eyes, turned, muttered, "Bloody useless," as she began to waddle out the door.
Frodo jumped up from the desk, rushed to her side and took her elbow. "I'm sorry, Rosie, it's only… well, I've never done this before and--"
"Well, neither have I, you know!"
Frodo twitched back, blinked at her. "You know," he told her, "you've this little vein on your forehead that starts jumping about when you're angry."
"Have to beat the lasses off with a stick, don't you then?" Rosie snapped. "All chivalry, you are."
She clenched her teeth, yanked her arm from Frodo's grip, and Frodo might have ended up with a black eye right there, had a pain not hit her at just that moment. Rosie gasped, her hand flying to her belly, and she latched onto Frodo's hand as she doubled over.
Glory, the girl had a grip on her! It was all Frodo could do not to shriek and jerk his hand from hers. Not that he could have -- she had a good two stone on him now and he'd once seen her wrestle an entire side of beef from the cold-cellar all by herself; he had no illusions -- he knew very well that she could take him if she wanted to.
He slipped his free arm about her waist to lend support, ignored the pain in his hand, trying not to think about the fact that if she broke it, he wouldn't be much good to either of them, and instead just hushed and soothed until he felt her shoulders relax a little. Apparently it was over -- for the moment, because as little as he knew about birthing and so forth, he was given to know that these things sometimes lasted for days and that the pain came in waves. And weren't you supposed to time them or something?
"All right?" he asked her.
Rosie nodded a little, took a few more breaths and gave him a shaky little smile. "I think so," she answered. "I think I need to sit down."
"Of course," Frodo told her. "The parlour's closer, but do you think you could make it to your bedsmial?"
"I don't think I can make it to either," Rosie said. "You've a nice fire going in there." She twitched her head towards the doorway. "Could I maybe lie on the couch in your study?"
Frodo stared.
In his study? Wait, weren't these things supposed to be… well, somewhat messy? And what if it really did take days?
"My… my study?"
Where all his books and papers and pipes and pens lived? And his lovely soft comfortable couch, where he took his naps or read or just sat and stared at nothing and revelled in solitude?
Chivalry be damned -- in his study? Was she mad?
"Of course," Frodo replied through his teeth and tried to smile reassuringly. He must have succeeded because Rosie smiled back, laid her head on his shoulder and allowed him to guide her back through the doorway and steer her over to the couch; he kept firm hold while she slowly lowered herself then he stripped the chair of its knitted throw and tucked her up. "There, now. Comfortable?"
She nodded, looked down. "Do you think maybe… would you mind fetching the quilt from my bed?" she asked him, flushed a little. "I wouldn't want to… that is, my water hasn't broken yet and it's an awfully nice couch."
Frodo straightened, frowned. A person could break water?
"What does water have to do with the couch?" he wanted to know.
Rosie just stared at him for a moment, then: "I thought you grew up in Brandy Hall."
Well, now she was making no sense at all. What did breaking water and couches have to do with where he'd grown up? He decided that, once again, the less he said, the better.
"I did," was his short reply.
"And no one ever gave birth while you were there?"
"Well, not right in front of me, no."
"And you've never seen a horse or cow or something give birth?"
"Well, of course I have."
And he certainly hoped she wasn't about to make the comparison he suspected was coming, else he might well have to bring up the fact that horses and cows did not torment those trying to take care of them while their husbands were away on 'gardening emergencies' and force them to spend entire days in the loo regretting every single mouthful of chipped beef, or pretending to write a book they were finished with because they were afraid to come out of their study. And he was quite certain that no horse or cow had ever, even once, wept over toast!
"It's messy," was all Rosie said and Frodo nearly rolled his eyes, because that he'd already known. "And a quilt is a lot easier to clean than a couch."
Oh.
Ew.
All right, that made sense. Frodo thought it was probably safest to just keep his mouth shut, nod and do what he was told. He fetched a quilt, stopped off in the kitchen for a pitcher of water and a glass and put the kettle on in case Rosie wanted tea, then quickly made his way back to the study.
"No sense in spoiling the one on your bed," he said as he slid the pitcher and glass onto the sidetable and shook out the quilt he'd retrieved from the linen cupboard. "This one's rather old and I won't miss it if it gets ruined, so--"
"Mister Frodo!"
Rosie was again clutching at her belly, curling herself over her knees. Frodo dropped the quilt, sat beside her, slipped his arm around her and again gave her his hand to squeeze. And bugger all, that bloody hurt! Still, it wasn't nearly as much pain as Rosie appeared to be in. Poor thing, this did look rather torturous for her and Frodo wished there was something he could do.
"Aren't you supposed to breathe, or something?" he asked. He'd heard somewhere that if a lass breathed in the right way, it made things a little easier.
"I rather thought I was," Rosie ground out between gasps. "You know -- breathing."
"No, I mean like in and out, in and--"
"Is there really another way to breathe?" she snarled.
"That's not-- Never mind." Frodo just shut up and held on until it passed. And wasn't he supposed to be timing these or something? He dug out his watch and his stomach dropped. "Rosie," he said slowly, "the last one was only ten minutes ago. How long have you been having these pains?"
A shrug and Rosie laid her head to Frodo's shoulder. "A few hours, I suppose."
"A few hours?" Frodo shot up from the couch, nearly bowled Rosie over sideways. Which would have been bad, because he'd seen her try and hoist herself up from a chair before and it looked rather awkward and difficult. "You said you'd tell me the second anything happened! The second! You promised!"
"Ooh, you have that little vein, too, Mister Frodo."
Frodo rubbed at his forehead. "Don't move," he told her. "I'm going to run down and fetch the Widow. Are you all right? You have everything you need 'til I get back?"
He didn't even wait for her to nod; Frodo bolted from the study and out the front door, not even stopping to snatch his coat from its peg. He sprinted down the walk, leapt the gate and ran so fast that the wind he stirred whistled in his ears. He arrived at the Widow's, breathing hard and a little light-headed, and pounded at the door.
And again.
And some more.
Leaned against the door and took several deep breaths.
All right.
No.
Just… no!
This was not happening. She had to be home. Because Frodo hadn't even known about the whole broken water thing -- he still didn't know and wasn't too keen on finding out -- and there was no way in the world he was going to be able to help Rosie actually give birth! And it seemed like there wasn't an awful lot a person could actually do to help another give birth, really, except maybe be in the right place and be ready to catch at the right time and all, but still.
Bugger, had he been gone more than ten minutes? He hated to think of Rosie having one of those pains all by herself.
He stood there at the Widow's door, couldn't decide what to do, where to go, how he was supposed to help when he had no idea in the world in which direction to even point himself. He had to get back to Rosie, but he also had to find the Widow and he also had to get someone to run for Lily Cotton, because surely a lass wanted her mum about when she was about to become one herself, right? And… and…
And what was wrong with him, anyway? He was Frodo of the Nine Fingers, for pity's sake! He'd been chased by sodding Ring-wraiths, captured by Orcs, met with great Elf Lords and had a wizard as a personal friend -- could he not calm himself down enough to handle one tiny little pregnant hobbitlass?
He thought about it.
And discovered that the only real problem with thinking was that, by its definition, he had to sort of listen to himself while he did it. Which wouldn't be a huge problem if his mind wasn't so busy shrieking incoherently and ramming its metaphorical head against a metaphorical brick wall.
Decided that no. No, he really couldn't handle one tiny little pregnant hobbitlass.
And Sam? Was going to be one very sorry hobbit when he got back from his 'gardening emergency'. He added a fat lip to the running tally of knee-to-the-stones and punch-in-the-nose that Sam was going to have waiting for him. Gardening emergency indeed!
Frodo gave up on the Widow, turned back to Number Three instead, dragged the Gaffer from a late-afternoon kip -- half-expecting to find the Widow there with him and couldn't decide if he was grateful or even more chagrined that he didn't -- and hurried him along, rheumatiz or no, to Bywater to fetch Lily Cotton. Just his luck that Marigold wasn't about. Or Daisy or May and sod it all, but if a hobbit was going to have so many daughters, shouldn't at least one of them be about when a female presence was so desperately needed? No help for it; Frodo hightailed it back up to Bag End, found Rosie, as he'd feared, curled up in a ball, panting her way through another pain. Sacrificed his hand again, glad it was his left hand because he'd need the right to give Sam that fat lip.
"You're doing fine, dear Rose," he told her, "and your mum will be here shortly." And he petted her hair, because… well, because that's what you were supposed to do when someone felt poorly, right? Hair-petting and back-rubbing and such.
"I want Sam," Rosie whimpered.
"So do I," Frodo sighed, only he was pretty sure he didn't want Sam for the same reason Rosie did. Unless she was planning to deck him one, too. Frodo petted her hair some more until he felt the tension run out of her and she sagged against him. "All right, then? Gone?"
Rosie nodded. "For now."
For now. Right. Because this wasn't over yet, was it, not by a longshot.
"I'm sorry, Mister Frodo. I was trying to get myself a bit of a drink when that one hit." She pointed to the floor. "I'm afraid I broke the waterglass."
Oh! That must be what she meant by breaking water!
"Just a glass, Rose, no worries." He patted her knee. "I put the kettle on a bit ago. Shall I make some tea?"
A shaky sigh. "That would be lovely," Rosie answered then
lifted her head, gave Frodo a soft kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for being
here, Mister Frodo."
She snorted, gave him another peck. "Let's have that tea then, aye? It might be a long night."
And Frodo flushed some more, didn't even stop to wonder why the prospect of a long night was suddenly not bothering him. He grinned, pulled the knitted throw more tightly about her then went to make some tea.
"Mister Frodo?"
Frodo stopped in the doorway, turned back. "Yes, Rose?"
Rosie was frowning as she peered behind him. "Why are there pens stuck in your wall?"
~*~
It turned out that the night wasn't long at all; in fact, it was all over before it had apparently begun.
By the time Frodo got back with the tea, Rosie was asleep on the couch. As quietly as he could, he cleaned up the broken glass and spilt water. Just as he was preparing his own tea, Lily Cotton and the Gaffer arrived, with the Widow in tow.
"Sleeping?" the Widow had said with a small smirk. "And how long's she been doing that?" When Frodo told her it had been thirty minutes, give or take, she smartly replied, "Then it en't labour," turned back around and headed for the door. "Males," she'd snickered as she left, to which Frodo and the Gaffer just sort of blinked at each other and to which Lily Cotton pursed her lips and very obviously tried not to snort.
Lily got her daughter off to bed, was good enough to insist upon fixing Frodo something for a late supper -- not chipped beef, thank all that was blessed -- then graciously accepted Frodo's plea-- er, offer to stay the night. Or two, or three. Just in case.
The Gaffer stayed for pipes and then headed down to Number Three, a clap on the back and a, "Ya done good, son," to Frodo as he'd left. He'd paused on the walk, turned back to Frodo, a clever little twinkle in his eye. "You won't hit my Sammy too hard, will you then, sir?"
Frodo only offered a snort and a wave in return.
Lily's presence seemed to give balance over the next two days; Rosie stopped having Mood Swings and Frodo stopped hovering. He used his pens more as pens and less as darts and since Lily was doing the cooking now, never once found himself making a desperate dash to the loo.
Sam arrived home on the afternoon of the twentieth and Frodo didn't punch him in the nose or knee him in the stones, but he thought about it; instead, he ended up pouring that brandy, though he held back on the toast. He may have a heart made of mush after all, but it had been a difficult two weeks, regardless of the pleasant way it all turned out.
And when Rosie went into labour late in the evening of the twenty-fourth -- real labour this time -- Sam turned to Frodo, white-faced and visibly jittering.
"Oh, mercy," was all he said.
Frodo just snorted a little, shook his head. "Oh, you'll be getting none of that tonight, I assure you," he replied then got dressed and sent for the Widow and Mrs. Cotton.
~*~
Things had settled in quite nicely. Elanor was somewhat less noisy than Frodo had been expecting, and smelled nicer than he'd thought, too. He even found himself elbowing Sam out of the way sometimes when Rosie needed a free hand, taking the tiny bundle in his arms and just staring, awestruck. He learned very quickly, however, that when her entire head turned red for any length of time, it did not mean that she was thinking really hard, and had got quite good at handing her to her father at just the right moment. Smitten or no, there were some things to which a bachelor should not be subjected and a nappy, in any form or condition, was one of them.
Pipes and brandy in the study. Elanor was three months old, Sam was enjoying his role as Proud Father and Frodo was very much enjoying his role as Doting-Default-Uncle, when Sam spoke the words:
"Aye, 'tis a lovely thing, this fatherhood." He took a deep breath, sighed. "I'm thinking I like it just fine. Sure and plenty enough to think about another."
Frodo coughed up his brandy, nearly dropped his pipe into his lap and set himself on fire. He caught his breath, turned to Sam.
"Sorry, what?"
Sam grinned. "Well, soon as Rosie's willing and all. I think if I brought it up now, she's like to clout me a good one."
As well she should, Frodo thought, but said: "You're thinking of having more children?"
A nod. "'Course," said Sam. "Rosie and I have always talked about having at least five or six, you know. And she came through this one like a champ. No reason not to have as many as she wants to bear, right?"
Frodo's head felt light. "Um…" he replied thinly then tossed back his brandy in one swallow.
"And you're right amazing, Mister Frodo," Sam went on. "Why, by the time she's ready to birth another, you'll be an old hand. Mayhap we won't even need the Widow, eh?"
Frodo didn't know if he managed to laugh or not -- he thought he might have actually blacked out for a second or two.
Still grinning, Sam stood, tipped a small bow. "Well, I'm done for," he said. He collected Frodo's glass and his own. "Thank you for the brandy, Mister Frodo. I'll just give these a quick wash and be off to bed." He waggled his eyebrows. "And mayhap see if Rosie's willing to start on little Frodo-lad."
Frodo just watched him go, stared blankly at his pipe for quite some time, thinking about Mood Swings and chipped beef and burnt toast. Pondering over 'gardening emergencies' and smelly nappies and frantic trips to the midwife's burrow. Not even wondering why his stomach did little flip-flops when the word 'sweet potato' floated into his consciousness and twisted itself 'round those three ominous words: 'five or six'. Harkening back to Sam's little comment about not needing a midwife next time and exactly what that might imply.
Frodo carefully emptied his pipe into the grate, stood, walked over to his desk and sat down. He chose the ivory vellum, pulled a sheet from its folio and placed it in the centre of the desk. All of his pens had been retrieved from the wall some weeks ago and now he chose the one he wanted, unstoppered the bottle of black ink, dipped his pen.
Dear Lord Elrond,
he wrote.
Remember that lovely jewel your daughter gave me? And how you said something about being in the woods outside the Shire come autumn?
Well, I've been thinking…
~*~
END
~*~
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