The mornings after had become routine: Sam crept into Frodo's room, made certain that the curtains were completely closed and no bright shaft of sunlight slipped through, then waited for a sign that his master was awake.
This morning, Frodo lay sleeping exactly as Sam had left him the night before, curled at the center of the bed, wearing his nightshift and trousers. When he stirred, Sam spoke softly, "Mr. Frodo?" and received a groan in reply. "How're you feel-ing?"
"Awful." Frodo pushed his hair out of his eyes and, after a confused moment, found Sam standing at the bedside. Sam marveled that anyone could look so appealing in such a sorry state. He knew what a mess he'd be with his eyes all blood-shot, hair in a tangle, and dried tears streaked down his face, but then he wasn't half as pretty to begin with.
The bottle of medicine stood ready on the nightstand, in case it was needed. Frodo sat up as Sam poured out a spoonful of the accustomed remedy, then swallowed it obediently. "Better?"
"Yes, Sam, thank you. I was miserable." Frodo touched the rumpled quilt where his cheek had lain. "I cried myself to sleep." Then he looked down at his mismatched clothing. "I must have had a wretched night."
"A bit rougher 'n usual." Sam didn't scold, but his disapproval was plain in his tone; Frodo looked abashed.
"Perhaps I do need a nursery-maid after all," he said by way of an apology.
"Someone's got to look out for you, if you won't do it yourself."
"I know it's no excuse for behaving so foolishly, but I was very upset at the pub last night."
"What about?" asked Sam, although he had a good idea.
"Oh," Frodo gave a nervous little laugh, "Merry and I quarreled, and of course Pippin took his side. I could hardly stand up to both of them at once, not over so many rounds." He hesitated, then glanced up timidly and said, "It was about you, Sam, about something Merry said." Color rushed into his pale cheeks. "And afterwards, I had another strange dream--Only... I wasn't dream-ing, was I?"
Sam stood frozen; his heart seemed to stop at Frodo's halting words:
"I kissed you. I've done it before. Merry's been making jokes about it. I thought he was doing it to tease, until he told me he saw..." The sentence trailed off, and he stared at Sam with great perplexity.
Sam was in a panic. How much did Frodo remember? He must have recalled that he'd already told him what Merry had said. But what else? Would he ask the same questions again? Sam waited in an agony of suspense, not knowing what to say.
But whether or not Frodo remembered what had been said last night, he decided not to repeat it now. "Well, perhaps it was only one of Merry's jokes," he said instead. "I suppose he and Pippin thought it would be funny to tell me all sorts of wild stories, then toss me at you." He tried to laugh it off, but the color in his cheeks had deepened to bright red.
As frightened as he was at the prospect of having the truth come out, Sam was somewhat disappointed by this unexpected reprieve. Frodo couldn't have meant what he said last night --or, at least, he was ashamed to recall it this morning and would rather pretend it hadn't happened.
"I wouldn't pay any mind to what Mr. Merry says," he agreed. "He doesn't mean half of it."
Frodo seemed relieved. "Yes, that's true. I never meant to embarrass you, Sam. I hope I wasn't too-" he paused deli-cately, "too difficult?"
"No more'n I could manage," Sam assured him. "But I'd rather it didn't happen again, and I'm sure you don't either." Sum-moning his courage, he met Frodo's eyes. "You don't, do you?"
Frodo looked away. "No, Sam," he murmured. "I won't do it again."
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