By: Dana
Summary: Rosie and Marigold weren't biding their time for thirteen months and ten days.
Characters: Rosie Cotton, Marigold Gamgee, and many others
Pairings: Rosie/Marigold
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Femslash, angst, some sexual content
Author's Notes: Another post in response to my minor character meme – this time for aprilkat, who asked for Marigold Gamgee and Rosie Cotton.
Thanks to sophinisba, for the beta and other support. *love*
This story makes a passing reference to this story, 'The Choices of Mistress Daisy', but I like to think it doesn't beat you over the head with it; if you hadn't read it, you might not even notice.
There are parts that are directly influenced by hyel, as well.
Series Index: In a Sunless Year.
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.

I. Halimath (SR 1418)

'Our Sam's got a right better head on him than that,' Marigold says. 'He'll do for Mr Frodo, just as Dad wants, just as Dad thinks is right proper: but Sam's not suited to a Brandybuck's life, not even if that Brandybuck's a proper Baggins by name, and I don't reckon it'll be long at all our Sam makes his way back home.'

Rosie's not ever thought Marigold a dreamer – Marigold, both her feet firmly planted on the ground and her head filled with Gamgee sense. But Rosie listens – they're sitting in the late sunlight, more heat in the air than either of them should like, and both of them having rolled up the sleeves of their dresses, and Marigold having bound up her dark curls – and there's something wistful about the way Marigold speaks, as if she knows too much and it's all too much to tell.

Marigold sits back – breathes – and looks up and at the sky, shielding her eyes from the hard glare of the autumn sun. 'He'll be back, mark my words.' Then she smiles, and looks at Rosie, and Rosie can't help it, and she smiles back.

'Our Sam'll come home, Rosie-lass, and no mistake.'

II. Winterfilth (SR 1418)

Lotho'd gone and made himself at home at Bag End, and Rosie hadn't any proper grudge against him, just that without Sam about, Lotho was letting Bag End's gardens waste. No, not to waste, but Lotho's gardener wasn't Sam, and couldn't seem to tell the difference between a hoe and a spade.

'He'll be the death of that garden,' Rosie says, sitting out front of Number Three, with Marigold beside her – the first of the canning, with the days turning as they are – and then Rosie goes on: 'Sam'll come back, and look at his home-coming – oh, I can't say he'll be glad at all. Though I'll be glad to have him home.'

It did feel like she was talking in circles and lies – but Marigold does seem to appreciate it, so Rosie will keep on. They both well enough know what news has brought of Sam – and Rosie's not so blind that she's not willing to see – but she can't see the truth in that news, of Mr Frodo and his cousins all having vanished into thin air, and Sam, too. As if it were some dark, foul play. As if Lotho deserved more than just a proper grudge.

III. Blotmath (SR 1418)

It really is too cold, and Rosie's acting the fool – stripping off her bodice, throwing it to the ground. Marigold, standing in the tall grass, clutching her basket to her chest, watches her. Marigold must be thinking the very same thing.

'Oh. Oh, but you're a daft one, Rosie Cotton,' Marigold says, and then she laughs. 'Go ahead, if you must – but I'll just sit, and watch.'

Rosie can't help it that she swims – really, can't help it, and she's been a swimmer just as long as she's known how to crawl or run or walk – and Marigold sits, watches, and Rosie turns, lets her dress slide, pool about her feet.

'Sometimes, when I ought to be sleeping, I'll watch the Water – wonder where it goes, and if I'll ever follow it. For all I've wondered, though, and I haven't ever followed out my dreams. But still, I do wonder. Our Sam – oh. He'd not have thought such foolish things.'

There's work they ought to do – though neither care, not now, two full months (to the day) since their Sam had gone away, and the water's too cold, too, but it does make a good excuse for her aching heart.

IV. Foreyule (SR 1418)

The winter's a bitter one – and the stores run low, but that's thanks to Lotho and his Men, showing up – well, the Men, not Lotho, as he's up at Bag End, where he's not the proper Master, and Rosie's certain that he's not only warm, but very well fed. Oh, but the Men are here, demanding a share of what the Cottons' have in store. And Rosie thinks it kills her father, just a little, as they have their way – though young Tom bristles, too, and Rosie sees he's not the only one who looks as he's itching for a fight.

And the Men have taken what's not theirs, and the winter is a bitter one – bitter, yes, and Sam's so very, very, very far away. What would he think? What would he say? Lotho's hardly a gentlehobbit – Rosie knows a snake when she sees one, and Lotho's nothing more than that.

Rosie thinks of what she can – the warmth of the winter before, when the Cottons and the Gamgees had all gathered for Yule at the Cottons' farm: when Rosie had kissed Sam beneath the mistle-bough, and Marigold had, afterwards, asked her to dance.

She can only look back.

V. Afteryule (SR 1419)

News comes – old Flourdumpling had been taken by Lotho's Men, and thrown into the – oh, what was the word? The Lockholes, which Rosie didn't know and couldn't very well comprehend. Lotho'd been slick, and the whole of the Shire knew that Lotho'd been, for a long while, up to no good. Well, Rosie hates him. She doesn't think he had any hand in the disappearances or Mr Frodo and her Sam – no, but Lotho's let the gardens at Bag End go to waste, she hates him for that. No matter the coin he acts as if he has, no matter what else he goes and steals.

And he does steal.

'They shut it down – the Green Dragon, and I'd heard word that they did the same with the Ivy Bsuh. Dad's beside himself, and I – and Daisy's gone out, Missus Proudfoot at Overhill's expecting – and I shouldn't have come all this way, I suppose, but I felt so – alone.'

Sam wouldn't allow this. Nor would Mr Frodo, but they're both so far away.

'Don't you worry, Mari-lass. Don't you worry.' And Rosie's worrying, and there's hard hate in her heart: but still, she's able to wrap Marigold in her arms.

VI. Solmath (SR 1419)

'I won't stand for it, Tom – I'll tell your Dad, I'll tell your Mum, and Rosie, you can't say you'll let him go.' Marigold's talking-very-loudly at Tom, now, as if she doesn't want Tom to have the pleasure of hearing her shout, and anyhow, Rosie'd done a good amount of shouting at him, too. Perhaps she was only keeping that in mind.

Rosie looks at Marigold, since she'd not, not since Marigold had come, breathless, to the Cotton farm: and not while Marigold's voice had risen to a shout. 'Rosie-lass, please,' she says, obviously distraught, though she looks to Tom, and says, 'Oh, Tom, please. I hadn't thought you had it in you. What good will this do?'

'Jolly'll be about, and Nick and Nibs, too. They won't let any harm come to you, Mari-lass, just as they'll keep our Rosie safe. And I'll come back. I'll come back, don't you worry. But Dad's got a hand in this business, anyhow. I should do something more.'

Tom would go – go away, go away, though he'd promised that, some day, he'd return – and Rosie remembers, can't forget, how Sam had promised the very same thing.

Sam still hadn't come back home.

VII. Rethe (SR 1419)

Marigold's been into the jam – she tastes of it, and her tongue is hot and smooth. Rosie gasps – not that she wants to cry, but it's one more month, and the feelings well up inside her, wanting to force their way out, though she shuts her eyes tight, focuses all her attention on Marigold's mouth. It's almost been a full half year, and her Sam's still gone away, and maybe their Tom is dead – Marigold's mouth, and the feel of her hands, pushing their way up underneath Rosie's skirt. 'Let me in, let me in,' Marigold whispers, and her voice is raw and hot, her hands had been the same. Marigold's thigh pushes, and Marigold's hands do, too, with Rosie pressed back against the barn's door. At least it's late enough out – they shouldn't be caught.

And – oh.

And it's a strange thing to think, after, with the barn door at her back, still, and Marigold sweat and skin against her front: but Sam is coming home, and Rosie knows it, and when Rosie laughs (when she feels her knees go weak), she puts her arms about Marigold's waist, and pulls her along, and whispers that, joyous, against Marigold's ear.

VIII. Astron (SR 1419)

They make their time, as they can – there's work about the farm, and it's on the first of Astron that Rosie first hears about her father's hand in the rebelling business. Oh, I've done nothing more than what I can, he says, and Rosie only wants to do the same. She'd split Lotho's lip, if she could, send him back to where he's wanted – her Tom had always wanted to make certain she could take care of herself, if there ever came a time that he wasn't around.

Oh. Now's that time.

'You needn't fuss and shout,' Sandyman mutters, and his voice is hot against her ear – and Rosie stands, paralysed with fear – hand hard, gripping at her arm. Oh, he's not Lotho, but they do share business, and Rosie knows that she hates him, just as well. Rosie splits his lip, her fist cracking against his nose – and she makes a run for it, all the way home, and when she runs into Marigold, she only then realises that she's not been running to her home.

'Oh, Mari-lass. I've a story to tell you.'

And because it's Marigold's own arm that's wrapped about her, she doesn't shake or cry.

IX. Thrimidge (SR 1419)

'I'll...' Rosie starts, then hesitates. 'I'll love you forever, you know.' Marigold looks at her, busy with stringing the wet wash up on the clothesline – looks at her, and smiles, and then she leans close, and kisses Rosie's cheek. Rosie breathes her in – counts the freckles dusted on her cheeks – and feels her heart beating, no, singing in her chest.

'Rosie – Rose Cotton, I should say. You're starting to sound like our Sam.'

'Aye. Well, that's no bad thing.' She catches hold of Marigold's wrist, turns her hand over – lifts it up, and kisses her palm. 'However, we've work to do – and it's late out, and I'd rather not run into that rot again, Ted Sandyman. Just as honest as a snake.'

'Just as honest as a rat. It's terrible, what Mr Lotho's up to; that Sandyman, too. But we've not been this close since we were lasses, Rosie. It's almost... it's, well, rather nice.'

'Aye, well – things do get in the way. And time. But you're always welcome, Marigold. Always welcome.'

'I know.'

The wash sits, forgotten for a while: as they kiss, as they breathe, as Marigold takes Rosie's hand.

'Time for a break, I think.'

'Oh, aye.'

X. Forelithe (SR 1419)

'I can't say...' Marigold starts, then hesitates. 'I've proper employment now, you should know – I'll come about, when I can. But I – I can't say I'll be about, Rosie.' She reaches out, through the opened window – with the summer sun at her back, and her dark curls so unlike Sam's own, fair and sandy – but there's still a tint of fallow gold around her edges. Oh, and in that moment, Marigold seems to glow. 'I'll be back, though. We've too much planning, you and I. I'll look out for you, just as you're looking out for me.'

She clutches at Rosie's hand – and Lily hums, as she goes about the kitchen, and Rosie doesn't care if her mother sees, not when she kisses Marigold square upon the mouth.

'I'll have Nick and Nibs walk you, Marigold. Jolly's out with Dad, but you'll have proper escort, Mari-lass, all the way back home.'

She doesn't want to ask – doesn't want to think – doesn't want to know why there's such fear in Marigold's eyes. No, less fear, but more concern. 'Just take good care of yourself, Mari-lass, when I can't.'

'Oh, aye,' Marigold says, with a shaking laugh. 'You just do the same.'

XI. Afterlithe (SR 1419)

Their birthdays are so close – Rosie and Jolly's, the seventeenth, and Marigold's, on the twenty-first – that their families have, for a long while, simply celebrated them at the same time. And there's presents to give – there's what Rosie would have given Sam, if Sam had been around (I'll just have to save it, then – it won't be long, will it, and then I'll see my Sam again), and there's what she gives to Marigold, with their families looking on – a very nice quilt, a story in seasons, and three jars of her best jam, that Rosie'd made it herself. Of course, that's just for their families to see, and then there's what she gives to Marigold afterwards, when the celebrating is all through, when they're sharing Rosie's bed (and that, just because, as old Tom'd said to Hamfast, once he gathered his children up, Hobbiton really is too far a ride away at this time of night, Hamfast, you old fool, and no, don't you think that you're imposing on us, none – I know you'd only do the same. And anyhow, it likely wouldn't be safe), yes, the one that Rosie gives her, but only once they're sharing Rosie's bed.

XII. Wedmath (SR 1419)

'I'll love you forever' – she'd said that, hadn't she? Rosie feels that she has, that she had to. It matters, beneath the stars and beneath the sky. It matters (one more month, for Sam, Tom, and now Marigold, too), and if it weren't for her brothers – Jolly, always quick to act, and Nick and Nibs, not ever without the other – Rosie's almost certain she'd go mad. 'I'll love you forever' – had it been Sam, had it been Marigold? She only has one heart, but she loves them, perhaps the same.

Sam's just taking his time, for whatever reason: and Tom doing the same. For all their Dad's dealings with the rebels, and the help Rosie's been with that, too – with making certain that the hobbits in the area get more food than what Lotho'd left them with, and making certain that all that had been stolen was being taken back, and sent to their proper homes – and Rosie's helped with that, yes, and it's almost that she's had too little time to think about any other concerns. But it's one more month – almost two full months – since she last saw Marigold (or Tom, or Sam). It feels like ten years.

XIII. Halimath (SR 1419)

It's dark out – the first that Rosie's been to Hobbiton since Lithe, and the first that she'd had to slip in, under cover of night – and she taps against the round window of Marigold's room, already darker than the night sky. Tap, tap, tap – and then, Marigold's cautious face. Rosie smiles. Touches the window with her fingertips. Mouths, 'You didn't forget.'

And Marigold, looking like she might just fall apart, eases the window open. 'Daft Cotton,' she says, and Rosie hears the strain of unshed tears in her voice, so she leans against the window seal, and wraps her arms about Marigold's waist: kisses her, and Marigold trembles, lets out her breath, and kisses her back.

'Of course, of course. I'd never forget.' Another kiss, deep and hard, but sad and slow. 'I've a story to tell you, Rosie-lass. And I've room in my bed.'

Marigold doesn't tell her story until the morning – though it's more Lotho's story, and Daisy's, and Rosie'd not ever hated him, before, but maybe (holding Marigold, and Marigold drifting off to sleep), maybe, at last, she does. For Sam's sake, at any length. For Marigold's, and for Daisy's, too.

Oh, Sam. Please, hurry back home.

XIV. Winterfilth (SR 1419)

Rosie was wondering if it would be so awful, making her home at Number Three – but that was just a dream, with Bagshot Row torn down and the new mill up, and ugly new houses thrown up to replace the ones that had been ruined: not more than a mile from the end of Bywater. She spends her days at the window, looking out – with Marigold, almost always at her side. The Gaffer had insisted: he had been torn from his home, with the row dug up, but he'd not inflict that on his youngest. So, they spend their days together: Rosie, sitting at the window, looking out, and Marigold trying to distract herself. No word from Tom, no word of Sam. But they would come home – since hobbits had died, the Men were killers. It's a dream away to a cold night, wrapped together with Marigold, in Marigold's bed: but Number Three's gone, now, gone and buried. Their brothers would come back, come home, and then everything would be well and all right.

That day, Rosie does more than look through an empty window: she holds onto Marigold's hand, and, like magic in a child's tale, Tom comes home.

XV. Blotmath (SR 1419)

Her Dad might have her and her mother to think of, but with Marigold at the Cotton farm – even if Rosie's brothers were all taking care of her, as if she was their own – Rosie has Marigold to think of, too. It's almost the end of another year – thirteen months and ten days. And they might all think that Sam's dead, though Rosie's heart doesn't believe – after all, he has a right better head on him than that, to not come home – and perhaps Marigold still believes.

And Sharkey's terrible, more than Lotho'd ever been – and she hates the both of them. There seems to be a storm brewing – her Dad's been itching for trouble, all through the year – night after night, dream after dream – yes, something's in the air.

Her heart might sing.

Then Marigold says, don't you worry, Rosie-lass, you've my word. But I've my Dad to look after – it's been too long, and he's only got me and Daisy, right now. I'll return.

Yes, Marigold believes.

Then, Rosie's standing in the yard, a lifetime later (no, just three hours, that's all), and the Shire's being raised, and Sam, her Sam, has come back home at long last.