Pairing: Frodo/Strider Gandalf
Rating: NC17
Warnings: None.
AN: AU! AU! Very AU. Hint of "Gone With The Wind"...
Beta thanks: Claudia

“Mr. Frodo, you don’t half look good in that,” said Sam, standing back and admiring.

Frodo beheld himself in the full-length looking glass and suppressed a tiny grin. He did look rather nice. The waistcoat was perfect! The greens and blues against the dark gold background suited him and he knew it. He blushed, embarrassed by his vanity, a pale pink tint that crept up around his cheeks and up to the delicate tips of his pointed ears. If only he could fill out a bit…

“Do I look terribly thin?” he asked, turning to Sam with imploring eyes. Sam looked him up and down and then smiled, kindly.

“Mr. Frodo,” he said, “there’s no denying that you are on the narrow side. But people don’t notice that about you for all they can see is the beauty of your face and the gentleness of your heart.”

Unsure what to say to this, Frodo turned his gaze once more to the glass. He twisted this way and that, trying to see what his bottom looked like in the new velvet britches.

“Mr. Frodo! There aint a hobbit to touch you; be assured. Now, I have to get home and get myself cleaned up for the party, too,” said Sam, pulling on his coat. At the door he turned and smiled, encouragingly. “He won’t have eyes for anyone but you, sir.”

Frodo gave Sam a quick and happy smile, his eyes sparkling. “And Rosie Cotton will have eyes only for my Uncle’s handsome gardener!” he cried. “We will both be a great success this evening.”

When he was alone, Frodo could not help but look one more time into the looking glass. As he did, he thought of all the hobbits who would be at the party tonight, who would try to catch his eye, fetch him a tankard of ale, a plate of cakes… He was used to it, and would politely decline their advances, as he always did.

For Frodo was in love, and had been for a long time.

He’d kept his secret from everyone but Sam, who had gently coaxed the truth from him one wintry evening when Bilbo was off on one of his jaunts. Sam would never betray his trust. Never.

Tonight, Frodo determined to make his feelings known to the loved one. He expected some misplaced resistance, for the object of his affections was extremely noble and honourable. Nevertheless, he felt that tonight he could overcome any obstacle. He simply must! He couldn’t go on like this, yearning…

Frodo licked his lips and bit down to bring some colour to them; he pinched his cheeks and ran a hand through his glossy dark curls. “You shall be mine tonight,” he thought, “I know you will. You just need to know how I feel. Once you know, everything will be all right.”

Down in the field the party was getting underway, with food coming in from all corners of the Shire. The noise of children screeching and giggling could be heard even up in Bag End. Frodo took one last look at his image in the glass, and closed the door.

“Who is that?” Frodo asked Sam, nodding discreetly towards a hooded man standing with Gandalf. Sam looked and shook his head. “I dunno, Mr. Frodo,” he replied, “never seen him afore.”

Gandalf was deep in conversation with the stranger, the only man present. Every once in a while, the wizard would turn and brandish his staff in the direction of the fireworks and one would jump from the stack and take off with a whoosh, erupting in a hail of bright sparks in the starry sky, to the delight of all.

Frodo sipped his ale. He had noticed the man immediately, of course; he was hard to miss, being tall, even for one of the Big Folk. From beneath his hood, the stranger had watched Frodo taking his seat at the table and had quite openly leered at him. “He looks as if he knows what I look like without my britches on,” Frodo thought, scandalised.

“Why is one of the Big Folk at Bilbo’s party?” Frodo wanted to know. He watched Gandalf talking to the man as if he were an old friend. He wondered when Gandalf would come over to talk to him and notice his new party clothes. A dozen hobbits had already made their way over to compliment him on his appearance, some quite persistently; the fare before him had grown into quite a mountain, though Merry and Pippin were obligingly bringing it back down to a more manageable hill .

Gandalf, however, had done no more than wave and smile, as he would to any of his acquaintances.

Gandalf.

The wisest person Frodo knew, apart from Bilbo, learned and worldly, Gandalf had seen more on his journeys than Frodo could even imagine. He also had kindly eyes and a deep, dignified way of talking. Frodo could happily listen to him for hours.

If he could only get Gandalf alone, Frodo could let him know that he loved him. He’d been sorely tempted on several occasions but those had not been the right ones. Upon hearing Frodo's news, Gandalf would be surprised, of course, but secretly thrilled. He would realise that he had always loved Frodo, too, and hearing the words spoken would be all that was required. They could journey together, he and Gandalf, and when they returned to Bag End every few months, it would be as lovers and companions, welcomed by Bilbo as equals. Frodo was determined to make Gandalf very happy.

He was woken from his reverie by whoops of laughter and admiration; they were bringing in the magnificent birthday cake and Frodo made himself focus on his aged cousin. He wanted Bilbo to have a wonderful birthday. If his plans worked out and Gandalf agreed to let Frodo accompany him, then this might well be his last night in Bag End. Dear Bilbo was embarking on some convoluted speech and Gandalf and his enigmatic companion were now listening intently. Or at least so it appeared at first glance. Frodo was soon once more aware that the man was staring at him with quite undisguised interest. He frowned and shivered.

“…I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve,” Bilbo was saying and the applause that had greeted his previous remarks dwindled as guests tried to work out where they came in this equation. Frodo understood at any rate and his smile was warm and genuine, though his eyes had drifted once more to the wizard leaning on his staff.

“Goodbye!” said Bilbo and disappeared. Frodo, who had just turned back to watch, stared open-mouthed as the old hobbit vanished from sight. He heard the gasps from the party guests and looked around immediately for Gandalf, but the wizard was now nowhere to be seen.

The man with whom he had been conversing was still there, however, and more to the point he was striding across the party field towards Frodo.

Frodo stood up, determined to avoid an encounter and more than a little worried about Bilbo –and Gandalf. Of course, he’d known Bilbo could make himself invisible, just as he had known the old hobbit intended to go off on one last adventure, but he hadn’t known it had been in Bilbo’s mind to do it tonight. Before he could get three steps from the table, however, the stranger had caught up with him and was holding out his hand in greeting. Frodo had been brought up to be polite and if this was a friend of Gandalf’s then he must swallow his disdain and be civil. So he took the proffered hand, regretting it immediately as it closed about his own and held him tight.

“Frodo. I am pleased to meet you. I am Strider,” said the man, pulling down his hood with his free hand. “I have heard much about you from Gandalf. And others.”

Frodo found himself looking up into grey blue eyes; the stranger’s face was a little grimy but he had obviously made some effort to clean himself up for the party. His clothes were worn and much-mended but surprisingly clean and he didn’t smell nearly as bad as Frodo had feared.

“Hello Strider. It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” Frodo said, trying to extract his hand from the man’s grasp. Sam was hovering nearby, and Merry and Pippin had also sidled up, both of them munching apples. They at least seemed very impressed with this Strider, shaking his hand enthusiastically.

“I will leave you with my cousins, Strider,” said Frodo politely, making to leave. He was a little taken aback when the man laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“Stay. Let me get you all some ale,” Strider said, smiling broadly. Frodo was perplexed. He wanted to get back home and make sure Bilbo was well, and see Gandalf. He needed to be with Gandalf and tell him he loved him, so they could make their arrangements. He wanted his new life to start soon.

“No, I really should go home,” he began, but the infuriating man would not hear of letting him go; he found himself sandwiched between Strider and Pippin at the table. Pippin was staring with quite unabashed adoration at the man, the first he had seen at close quarters. Merry seemed less enthusiastic, mainly because Pippin was paying him not the slightest bit of attention. Sam simply looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure what was happening. He caught Frodo's eye and Frodo shrugged helplessly.

So they drank their ale and Pippin told them all a series of jokes that involved pigs with wings; Strider laughed companionably and, when pressed, shared a few innocuous stories about the lands beyond the Shire. Frodo had the feeling Strider was keeping something back, as if the man knew much more than he was letting on.

“How long have you known Gandalf?” Frodo asked, before Pippin could begin another bawdy tale. Strider looked hard into Frodo's eyes and held his gaze until Frodo could feel himself blushing.

“Many, many years. He is one of my dearest friends. You are very beautiful, Frodo,” Strider said, conversationally. Pippin nearly choked on his ale, and he and Merry clapped their hands over their mouths, their eyes like saucers. Sam’s jaw dropped open.

Frodo tore his eyes from Strider’s and stared instead into his empty tankard. He didn’t know what to say. No one had ever said anything like that to him; his many admirers had always been rather ambiguous, resorting to hints and innuendo rather than disarming frankness.

“I-I really must go,” he said, practically shoving Pippin aside so he could extricate himself. Strider didn’t try to stop him, though he did smile, showing a lot of teeth and the tip of a large pink tongue.

“Really!” thought Frodo, running along the lane to Bag End. “Please let Gandalf be there. And Bilbo, of course!”

The door was ajar and inside the parlour, Gandalf was sitting before the fire, smoking his pipe. “Bilbo!” cried Frodo. He noticed the Ring almost straightaway and stooped to pick it up. It felt as it always felt - surprisingly heavy.

“He’s gone, hasn’t he? He talked for so long about leaving. I didn’t think he’d really do it,” said Frodo, sadly, forgetting about the Ring.

Gandalf turned in his chair, which was far too small for him. Frodo felt the familiar lurch in his stomach, imagining how it would feel to bury his face in that long grey beard. The wizard was smiling wistfully, as he saw what Frodo held.

“Bilbo’s Ring. He’s gone to stay with the elves. He’s left you Bag End…” he said, holding out an envelope. After a slight hesitation, Frodo dropped the Ring inside and watched as Gandalf deftly sealed it with wax and handed it over as if it were hot. He felt the wizard’s eyes on him as he put the Ring away at the bottom of a chest.

He returned to the wizard’s side, leaning against Gandalf as he had done since he was but a young hobbit and they first met.

“Then it is just you and me,” he said, softly. He leaned closer still and rested his head on the familiar shoulder. Gandalf patted his hand.

“Gandalf?” Frodo began, his heart pounding. He had to say it now or never.

“Yes, Frodo?” Gandalf replied, staring into the fire.

“I need to talk to you.” Frodo took a deep breath.

“I love you, Gandalf, I always have and I want you to either stay here with me or take me with you when you go away,” he cried, the words coming out in a dreadful rush. He waited. There was a gentle and wistful sigh.

“Oh, Frodo. You mustn’t say such things.” Gandalf had ceased patting Frodo's hand and now he stood, his head brushing the ceiling. He looked infinitely weary. Frodo's heart sank.

“But I love you, Gandalf. I do. I want to kiss you and touch you… I could help you so much… I’d do anything…”

When Gandalf held out his arms to Frodo, the hobbit fell into them with such gratitude and relief. Gandalf sat back down in his chair, Frodo in his lap. Frodo clung to the wizard, breathing in his familiar smell, luxuriating in the thick beard and the homespun robe. He nuzzled Gandalf’s neck, burrowing deeper to fumble with the fastenings on the shirt beneath the robe…

“Frodo, stop,” Gandalf cried, holding the hobbit at arms length. “I am so sorry. I am flattered… But it can never be between us. I’ve been a fool not to see how you felt. I should leave.” He gently disengaged Frodo's hands from his clothing and stood up.

“Keep the Ring safe, Frodo. I must go but I will return.”

“No! You cannot leave. I won’t let you. I must make you understand…” Frodo pulled at Gandalf’s arm but was brushed aside.

“Frodo, be reasonable. I never gave you any indication-“

“You did! You told me I was fair. You told me you enjoyed our walks, our talks… You told me you cared for me,” Frodo protested, tears welling up in his eyes.

“I am a fool, Frodo. If I had known, I would have chosen my words more carefully. I never meant to hurt you-“

“But you have! You are cruel and I never knew that about you.” Frodo glared, anger vying with heartbreak. Gandalf looked dreadfully hurt; then he squared his shoulders and straightened his robe, pulling his cloak about him. Before Frodo could stop him, Gandalf had pushed open the door and was gone into the night, leaving the door open behind him.

Frodo stood rooted to the spot, then fell to his knees before the hearth. “But I love you, Gandalf,” he whispered at last.

“I don’t doubt you do, Frodo, but the wizard can never give you what you so obviously need.”

Startled, Frodo turned to the sound; a tall form in the doorway, crouching to see in. For a mad second he had thought it was Gandalf, returned to him, but he was mistaken. It was the rude fellow, the man from the party, come to taunt him.

“You, sir, do not know anything about anything at all!” Frodo hissed, striding across to close the door in the man’s face. But Strider was too strong, and easily pushed his way inside.

“Frodo, Frodo,” he said, softly, sitting down with his back to the round door. He fixed his gaze firmly on the hobbit and smiled. Frodo thought it the most hateful smile he had ever seen. True, the man was handsome, but he was so, so – smug!

“Please leave,” Frodo said, wondering if he should beat a retreat into the bedroom and thence out of the window. “My uncle has gone, as you no doubt know, and I have a lot of things to attend to on the morrow.”

“Frodo, I mean you no harm,” said Strider, lighting his pipe with infuriating casualness. “I know I seem rude and uncouth to you, and I apologise for it. But I live life on the edge and know that each day may be my last. You interest me, greatly, and I feel obliged to act on my impulse for who knows what tomorrow may bring?”

The faint sounds of the party, now breaking up, were coming in through the window; half sounds that spoke of drunkenness and bellies full, of gossip and slander… Frodo did not doubt that he and his uncle were the subject of much speculation this night.

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?” Frodo asked, wearily. He wondered where Gandalf was, whether he was already on the road out of Hobbiton. So engrossed was he in thoughts of Gandalf – he’d left so suddenly… would he be warm enough? Did he have food? – that he didn’t notice the man moving from the door until he was caught up in a strong and rough embrace. The room was suddenly very hot and dark and the party noise had been superseded by another of more immediate concern; the thud of his heart.

Frodo had never been kissed before and he found himself wondering why. It was beautiful and natural, to be kissed by someone who knew what he was doing, who held him firmly in place and whose tongue pushed greedily inside Frodo's mouth. He opened his lips and let Gandalf in. But this was not Gandalf, for where was the silken beard that he loved so? This beard was shorter and more stubbly, the flesh it concealed younger, hard. He pushed away, opening his eyes wide and staring into greyblue eyes that seemed now to be mocking him.

“You- you,” he cried out, pulling free from the man’s arms; Strider suddenly relinquished his hold and Frodo fell against the settle, gasping for breath.

“I am sorry, Frodo,” Strider said, his face now full of concern and contrition, or some approximation thereof. “You looked so lovely and you are very hard to resist. You would be wasted on the wizard, you know.”

“You aren’t fit to-to-to lick his boots!” Frodo spat, indignantly. He shook his head.

“And you said he was cruel,” laughed Strider, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He reached for his pipe, which had gone out, and lit it anew.

Frodo felt the overwhelming urge to flounce out of the hole by the back door, into the night, to keep walking until the stars twinkled out and the sun rose. But this was his home! If anyone should leave, it should be the intruder; he, however, seemed very comfortable where he was.

“I am expecting a visitor any time, so you must leave,” Frodo said, decisively. On an impulse, he added, “It’s my lover. And he’s jealous. And he’s big.”

“For a hobbit?”

“For anyone!” said Frodo, indignantly.

“So Gandalf is not your only lover? You give your heart and your favours very freely, if that is the case.” Strider sucked on his pipe and smiled.

Frodo turned over in his mind all the unspeakably uncouth and annoying folks he had met in his lifetime and came to the conclusion that this Strider was the most unspeakable, uncouth and annoying of them all. Easily.

“Why are you persisting here? Why must you plague me?” Frodo demanded, tetchily. He didn’t like the way Strider was caressing the bowl of his pipe as he smoked, his long callused fingers stroking the worn shiny globe… it made him feel hot.

“I know about you. You are no innocent, Frodo.”

“What? What do you mean?” Frodo demanded, moving closer.

“You have quite a reputation for one so young,” the man replied, holding Frodo's gaze. He shifted on the floor and now Frodo could see an unmistakeable bulge in his britches that the man was at little pains to hide.

“I am not so young! I am thirty-three! And any tales you have heard of me are falsehoods!” Frodo cried, but he had made the mistake of moving within arms reach and now he found himself grasped once more in a strong embrace. Pipe smoke… leather… the sweet aroma of ferns and mosses… a trace of soap… man… All these scents assailed his senses in an instant and then he sensed nothing but firm, warm lips on his own and a hand as solid as a rock upon his back. He knew the hand was travelling downwards, feeling him through his beautiful new party waistcoat, assaying him through his clothes… He gave in to the delight of being held, of being kissed once more; this was a thing that was being done to him, not a thing that he was doing. Therefore he could let go of any guilt for any of it. Gandalf could not rebuke him, should he return suddenly and stoop through the door into Bag End. Gandalf.

He remembered sitting in Gandalf’s cart; the smell of saltpetre and leather and pony… the creaking of the wheels as the cart crossed the bridge… Strider’s fingers winding gently through Frodo's tresses… Gandalf harrumphing as he denied that he had ever led Bilbo astray and all the while Frodo longing to blurt out that he loved him, that he wanted to see the world with him… Strider’s breath hot against Frodo's neck and ears, his lips warm and dry and wanting… Gandalf, who had lived a thousand and more years and seen a thousand and one sights that a hobbit could never dream of, learned and wise… Strider, in whose arms Frodo now lay, whose tongue he now welcomed with his own… Strider.

“I am not Gandalf,” Strider said with surprising gentleness, drawing back just enough so he could look down into Frodo's eyes and Frodo could look up into his. “But I am here.” He waited, all his weight taken on his arms, waited for Frodo to assent.

“If anyone should happen by, any of my relatives, the neighbours…” Frodo cried, biting his lip. “It’s unseemly to be entertaining a Man in the hole…”

Strider smiled then, a warm and somehow less feral smile. “Do you care so very much what your neighbours think, Frodo Baggins?” he asked, teasingly.

“It is all right for you. You are a wild man, a Ranger… you have no reputation to guard, do you?” Frodo cast a nervous glance in the direction of the door, which was closed but not locked.

Strider leaned down so that his long hair fell about Frodo's cheeks and their breaths mingled. “With enough courage, you can do without a reputation,” he whispered.

Daybreak flooded Bag End with a kind and forgiving light; it found the hobbit and his man entwined upon the floor, their clothes strewn about them.

Frodo stirred in Strider’s arms, a little disoriented.

“Ah, you awake,” Strider said, gently. Frodo became acutely aware of his nakedness. He felt exposed, vulnerable in the light of day. Last night he had been protected by three half pints of beer; this morning he had not even that. He sat up, ashamed.

“Where are you going?” Strider asked, stifling a yawn.

“Oh… to make breakfast,” Frodo replied, avoiding that level bluegrey gaze.

Strider easily pulled the hobbit back down beside him, cushioning Frodo on his manly arm. “Breakfast can wait. Last night was glorious.” With aching slowness he claimed Frodo's mouth with his own. Frodo moaned, his legs falling open of their own accord. His body remembered last night and craved more of it.

With a shiver of guilt he remembered closing his eyes and imagining it was Gandalf who was pleasuring him, Gandalf’s familiar hands disrobing him, Gandalf’s hands upon him. When he asked Strider to extinguish the lamp, the Ranger had acquiesced with a knowing smile.

At some time during the night, perhaps just before dawn, Frodo had found himself being prepared for loving one more time by experienced fingers that he had now grown very fond of. He lay on his belly and enjoyed the whisper of the man’s breath upon his back, the tip of his tongue trailing up and down his spine, the careful weight as Strider settled above and over and, finally, inside him.

When he closed his eyes, it was Strider’s face he saw.

Now it was morning and the day was beginning. Soon, Sam would be arriving to begin his chores and down in the party field the clearing-up would begin in earnest. Frodo shifted beneath Strider, the Ranger’s hardness eager against his belly.

“I feel that I must be terribly inconstant, that you were right about me,” Frodo said, cupping Strider’s face and stroking the silkyrough whiskers.

Strider shook his head. “Inconstant because last night you loved the wizard and this morning you do not?” he asked, kissing Frodo's forehead and the tip of his nose.

“I still love Gandalf!” Frodo protested. “I will always love Gandalf.” A little of the old resentment flared inside but Strider was smiling, the deep lines about his mouth crinkling, eyes bright with mischief.

“I know you do, silly hobbit,” he whispered, raising Frodo from the floor in order to squeeze his bottom playfully. “I know you do not love me. Maybe you never will.”

Frodo sighed, enjoying the hands on his backside. His own hardness pushed impudently against the man’s, smaller but just as insistent.

“Then what is between us?” he asked, just as Strider leaned down to kiss him; he chuckled into Strider’s mouth for what was between them was growing and getting impatient.

“Frodo, I do not know what lies ahead. These are dark times and the road is uncertain. I can’t stay here with you, much as I would like…” Strider paused, unable to resist for one more minute the urge to mount Frodo. He growled possessively and Frodo arched his back, clasping Strider’s arm.

When, some time later, Frodo came, it was Strider’s name that he cried.

***

“Is it secret, is it safe?” Gandalf, wild-eyed, demanded of Frodo. The hobbit quickly retrieved the Ring from the chest, handing over the envelope in which Gandalf had sealed it years before. He watched in dismay as the wizard cast Bilbo’s Ring into the fire.

Later, they sat at the kitchen table and drank tea together while Gandalf told Frodo things he had never thought to hear. He listened with growing horror and knew his life was changed forever. He must leave the Shire.

“Frodo,” the wizard said, tentatively. They were in Frodo's chamber, filling a pack with clothes and discussing the best way to get to the Prancing Pony. Frodo looked up, expectantly. He had been waiting for this.

“When last we met, when last I was here… I hurt you-“ Gandalf began.

Frodo shook his head and gently squeezed Gandalf’s hand. “Let us not talk of it, Gandalf. I was but a lad with a lad’s foolishness. I love you, it is true, but it is a different kind of love now, old friend. You need have no worries about that anymore.”

Gandalf looked at the hand upon his own and then into Frodo's eyes, shining brightly in the lamplight. He seemed about to say something, as if summoning up the courage to make some declaration, but it died upon his lips. He squared his shoulders and handed Frodo a shirt.

“Very well. Hurry, there is little time!”

***

Frodo and Sam were leaving the Shire.

Gandalf watched them go, two little hobbits bearing a terrible burden. He dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and rode off; he had business now in Orthanc.

As he rode, he thought of the Ring. Of Saruman the Wise whose counsel he sought with some urgency. He thought of the fate of Middle Earth, of the Valar, of a bawdy tale he had heard in a tavern a hundred years before… He thought of Bilbo, dear old irrepressible Bilbo.

But mostly his thoughts were of Frodo.

“Be safe, my dear hobbit,” he whispered into the wind as he rode ever further from the one he now knew was his only love.

The End