Sam shifted listlessly from side to side. Da wasn't pleased about something, and from the looks of it, neither was Mr. Bilbo. They were standing in the doorway, whispering, their hands making small, worried motions, like the doves at market. Though Sam couldn't hear what they were saying, he knew something bad was happening, same as he knew when rain was coming or the weeds went too deep for him to pull up himself. Their hunched shoulders and hissing whispers made him nervous.

But not nervous enough that he couldn't be bored. They'd been standing in the doorway for a long time now, and Sam's stomach, at least, knew suppertime was getting closer. But suppertime or no, Da and Mr. Bilbo kept whispering, and fluttering, and worrying. Sam scratched at his leg with one foot and sighed. Helping Da in the garden wasn't turning out to be as fun as he'd thought.

Well, the gardens themselves were fun. He'd seen Bag End often enough, but the intricate tangle of vegetables, herbs, and flowers were new to him, new and overwhelmingly wonderful. The weeds he'd had to pull were less wonderful, but the flowers... Never had he seen such flowers.

Put to this train of thought, Sam was suddenly less bored. He glanced over at his da, still deep in whispered conversation with Mr. Bilbo, and carefully set down the bucket full of weeds. Silently, he crept around the smial and into the garden.

By the fading light of sunset, it was even more beautiful than it had been that afternoon. The flowers blazed with color, as if anxious to turn the last of the light to their advantage, and the cozy green of the vegetables swayed invitingly in the evening breeze. Sam took another step forward and exhaled, suddenly very happy. Da was right; he did love the garden.

For several long, happy moments, Sam just wandered through the garden, running feather-light touches over the flowers even Da had forgotten to name. Closing his eyes, he bent his head to the blue violets and breathed deep.

A breath caught in a hiccup, and Sam quickly straightened. It wasn't his breath, for sure, which meant someone else was in the garden, which meant a scolding at the very, very least. Sam swallowed once, then looked around.

There. There at the base of the sugar maple at the far end, a hint of white sleeve and a bit of foot. But it couldn't have been Da, or Mr. Bilbo, for why would they sit behind a tree, with him messing about in the garden so secret-like? Curiosity soon overtook the dim threat of a scolding, and Sam took a few slow steps toward the tree. Another hiccup sounded over the garden, and Sam winced. He knew the sound of hiccups like that, so close in a row, and had only heard them when somebody had been crying.

Suddenly anxious, he hurried toward the tree, rounding it easily and then stopping dead in his tracks. A young hobbit was nestled in the roots of the tree, his face buried in his arms, his shoulders jerking spasmodically. Sam dropped to his knees before the hobbit and patted his dark hair with a gentle, if slightly grubby, hand.

"There, there," Sam crooned softly, as his mam did when he had dropped the crockery or cut his arm on the rosebush. "'Tis nothing that can't be fixed."

The dark-haired hobbit jerked back as if stung, his eyes wide and frightened. Sam dropped his hand.

"Who...who are you?"

Sam grinned. "Samwise Gamgee."

The dark-haired hobbit seemed to curl around himself more tightly, an almost impossible feat in Sam's eyes. His grin faded immediately.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked anxiously. The dark-haired hobbit seemed to suddenly remember his tear-streaked face, and scrubbed at it with his sleeves.

"Never you mind," he said, the fear in his voice replaced with a sudden steel. Sam's brow furrowed, and he pulled a large linen square from his pocket.

"Here, then," he said. "Mam gave it to me special this mornin', as I was comin' to the garden for the first time. You can use it."

The hobbit took the square gingerly, looking a little abashed. "My name's Frodo," he said in to the silence. Sam started.

"You're the one who's come from the Brandybuck Hall!"

Frodo grimaced. "That's me, all right."

Sam shifted, curling his knees up as Frodo had done. "Do you miss them?" he asked simply. Frodo's face flushed crimson.

"I love Bilbo," he said defensively. "But...it's..."

Frodo sighed suddenly. "Never mind," he said, folding the damp square of linen. "I'm too big to be crying about it, anyway. Thank you for the handkerchief, Sam. I'll just be going inside now."

Sam took the proffered square, but remained sitting. "Mam says crying does the body good. She says bad feelings aren't meant to be trapped up inside, and when you cry, you let 'em get out so they don't hurt you none. Da scolds me when I cry sometimes, but not Mam."

Frodo paused, poised to stand. "Well, you're little," he said reasonably. Sam shrugged.

"Mam's big, and she cries."

"She's a girl, though, isn't she?" Frodo returned, exasperated. "It's different."

Sam frowned at this. "Mam never said cryin' was different 'tween her and me. She just hugs me and gives me a piece of cake or an apple when I'm done, and I don't think nobody gives her cake when she cries. Does you need a piece of cake?"

He looked up at Frodo, looking anxious again. For a moment, Frodo seemed torn between frustration and laughter, then he slumped against the tree.

"I don't want cake. I'm just...lonely."

Sam's eyes widened. "Lonely? But there's two of us, now."

His slightly grubby hand found Frodo's, and he gripped it reassuringly. "You can't be lonely, with two."

Frodo stared down at their clasped hands, not saying anything. Sam bit his lip for a moment, then scooted a bit closer.

"I can hug you, too. Iffen that'd help."

Frodo buried his face in his arms again, and Sam let go of his hand, patting at his back instead.

"There, there," he said softly, again and again. "Nothing that can't be fixed."

Frodo hiccuped, then lifted his face. "What do you mean, 'can't be fixed'?"

Sam shrugged. "It's what Mam says. She can fix most anything, I think."

From the other side of the tree, there came a set of calls, matched only in volume and anxiety.

"Frodo?"

"Samwise!"

"Da!" Sam called back. Frodo stiffened beside him. Mr. Bilbo soon rounded the tree, followed closely by Gaffer Gamgee.

"Frodo, lad!" Bilbo exclaimed. "Are you hurt?"

Frodo ducked his head, and Sam threw an arm around his shoulders.

"He ain't hurt, Mr. Bilbo," he piped up. "He's just getting the bad feelings out so they don't hurt him none."

Mr. Bilbo gaped at him for a moment, and Gaffer Gamgee blushed to the roots of his hair.

"Come along, Sam," he said gruffly, but Sam stayed resolutely put.

"Can't, Da," he explained apologetically. "Frodo says he was lonely, but now there's two of us, and if I go home, he'll just be one again."

Sam's arm suddenly shook on Frodo's shoulders, and when Frodo raised his head again, he was laughing through the tear streaks on his face.

"I think you're right, Sam," he said. "Your Mam was right, anyway, about getting the bad feelings out."

Sam nodded knowingly. "Da wants me to go home," he explained seriously. Frodo inclined his head, matching Sam's solemn gaze.

"Perhaps...perhaps you could eat supper with us? Uncle Bilbo?"

Gaffer Gamgee opened his mouth to interrupt, but Mr. Bilbo was already smiling his assent.

"Of course, Frodo, lad. Wouldn't want you to be one again, would we?"

Sam threw back his shoulders. "He ain't gonna be one no more," he said firmly. "I won't let him."

Mr. Bilbo pressed his lips together at that, then smiled, though why, Sam couldn't say.

"No, of course not," Mr. Bilbo replied gently. "Not as long as you're here. Come along then, Samwise. It seems you'll be staying."