Rating: G/PG
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Summary: Frodo and Aragorn meet in the spring.
Warnings/Author's Notes: The slash is implied more than explicit, but it's there. This is what they told me, so this is what I wrote down.
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.

"You miss the fellowship?" Frodo says, lifting his tankard. "Not the hard parts, the fighting, the ugly things, but the being together, just us?" He takes another sip, lets it become a gulp. Stares into the fire that's almost not necessary now, Spring evenings warm enough to keep the windows open until almost dark. That's when the chill enters, though, and that's when the fire's welcome.

"Indeed," answers the Man, leather coat open against the heat. His tankard nearly three times the Hobbit's in size, as is his hand, but his longing for what was is equal in every part. This is what's brought them together. The need to talk about it: what was and is no longer.

Frodo sighs, remembering when the Witch-King's sword left him nearly dead on Weathertop how the Man's hands had worked athelas into the wound, antidote to the bone-chilling cold whose echo makes the fire necessary on a Spring evening. How the big hands had lifted him onto the Elf's horse, steadied him for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. He looks up into the Man's eyes, but they're shaded, unreadable, reflecting flames but nothing else.

Aragorn puts his pint down on the table, shifts in his seat, and pulls out his pipe. He keeps the hood of his cloak up: it would not do for the whole of Middle Earth to know that their King and the Ring-Bearer have stolen a day and a night in a rustic inn for reminiscence. Pipe lit, he draws a breath, finest tobacco of one Farthing or another settling easily around them as he lets the smoke out slowly. Finally he meets Frodo's eyes, a smile in his reflecting in the Hobbit's as they watch the smoke curl away, caught in a draft up the chimney. "Gandalf" is all they say to each other, and "Smoke dragons." It's enough.

"How's Sam?" He asks casually, as though Sam were a cousin, or a dog, not a companion in arms in the battle for life itself. "He's happy, he and Rosie? There's a child, yes?"

"He's well, very well, and Rosie too. Living with me in Bag End, you know. More room than I need, and the company's welcome of a night."

Another draught and the tankards are empty; a serving woman brings replacements without any hint that she's been watching carefully for just this moment. "Don't disturb them," the landlord'd said. "Just keep them in drink, and things around them quiet, and all will be well with them, and for you." She brought a plank of bread and cheese, a bowl of fruit, and water for finger washing, and left them to their corner and conversation.

"The baby's hair is gold, you know, like the Elves." Frodo's small hand brushes Aragorn's large one as they reach for cheese at the same time. They don't pull apart, but let the contact last. Old friends, easy with each other. "She's a beautiful child, Rosie's and Sam's. Brings life into the old place."

Information shared as easily as bread, bits passed back and forth between them like slices of apple, crumbs of cheese, until the plank is empty, the tankards filled again, and talk turns to other things.

"How's the Queen?" Frodo asks, genuinely interested. He loves those who love his King: the half-Elven Elessar deserves no less than an Elven wife, Gondorian Steward, Rohirrim and Elven courtiers and councilors. Hobbits are plain folk, best left to their own in Hobbiton. Arwen holds special place in his heart though: she loves this man that he loves, and shares him unstintingly with those who need him.

"She's well. With child, which is why I must hurry back. She sends her love and her blessings to you, and goods for Rosie and the little golden-haired miss. She was pleased to hear that you're not alone in that big old place; indeed, she used that as her basis for inviting Legolas to stay in the palace with us when he is not with his own people. 'We've space for 500 here, Elessar,' she said, but she meant… well, you know what she meant, Frodo."

Silence falls comfortably between them as they acknowledge what few outside the Nine will know: bonds of fellowship follow bonds of love, which follow no law but their own.

"Sam- does Rosie… mind?" Aragorn's eyes drop back to his ale, as though answers sat in its bottom with the last of the foam.

"No, she does not. She is… generous. Kind. She knew, before they wed, that I cannot sleep if he is not with me, and took him anyway. She is his, and he hers; what he and I have takes nothing from that." Frodo pushes his half-pint away, done now, and opens his cloak to the fire's full warmth, rubbing his shoulder where the old wound aches still. "And Arwen? How is she about… everything? About Legolas?"

"She knew before we spoke. She saw in his eyes how he guards me, and in mine how I need him; "I will follow you on this earth, but he will follow you in the heart's life," she said, making his apartments and mine discretely joined by a private courtyard. " 'You are my King, my husband, and my love. He is cousin, brother, friend, to me. But you to him, and he to you… that is something I cannot be nor would I wish to try it.' She has her own apartments, where she keeps happy and busy when he is at Minas Tirith. In truth, I sleep better when he is with me than any other time."

Their eyes meet, understanding deep and true passing between them. "In truth, only two have power to warm me fully now, Strider," says Frodo, smiling. "You, as King and Healer, and Sam. My beloved Sam." His face softens, his body relaxes, at mention of his Sam. "I leave in the Fall, I think, though he does not know this yet. He is to follow when Rosie's time is done and the children, grandchildren grown, though he doesn't know that either, nor will he fully for many years. I cannot bear to leave him but that she is there for him. " His eyes darken. "It is a good thing, that we were able to meet tonight. There are so few who would understand, but I know you do, old friend."

"I do." Aragorn nods, noting the pallor of his friend's face, the way the light doesn't fully return to his eyes. "It's late," he says. "Should we be away to rest, now? Merry and Pip will be here early to fetch you and bring you home, and I've business I can't leave longer than this night." He puts one big hand over the other's small one. "But tonight I will take Sam's place, and keep you warm until morning."

Their eyes meet, one last time, in agreement that bonds formed in the Fellowship of the Ring are stronger than any other before or since. "I'd like that," Frodo says simply. "I'd like that very much."

In the morning each looks a little more rested, a little better able to face the days, the years ahead. Parting is sweet between them for the love that's passed between them is sweet, too, and honest in its knowing that they carried each other every step of the way to the Ring's destruction, though miles apart.

"This is it then, for us. No Spring hence will find us meeting?" Aragorn's eyes are soft as he puts a hand out in farewell.

"I am with you here," Frodo says putting his hand on Aragorn's heart, "always." With that he throws himself around his friend's waist, clings for a moment, then steps away. Simply and quietly he says "I will always love you, my King."

"And I you, Ring-bearer and friend," Aragorn says, "And I you."

The End