I've been more than pleased to contribute with a small F/S fic and here's what I wrote:
Title: Sam’s hands
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Frodo / Sam
Word count: 1.177
Rating: PG 13
Summary: Frodo fell severely ill, but Sam was by his side and helped him to recover
Disclaimer: Hobbits and the Shire are Tolkien’s (Eru bless him!). No offence intended and no money made.
A/N: Many thanks to lyrastar77 for the beta and her precious help
Sam silently entered the dark room. He opened the curtains and let the first morning light in, revealing the pale, feverish hobbit asleep in his bed.
Sam still couldn’t believe that his beloved master’s life had been in danger. One day Frodo had come back from a trip to Buckland, chilled to the bone and shivering like a leaf in the wind. A sudden winter snowstorm had caught Frodo unawares while he was on his way home, and it had taken all his energy and will to reach the green door of Bag End.
It was Sam who saw Frodo stumbling and swaying once inside the smial and his master would have surely fallen if Sam had not been ready to catch him before he hit the ground. Sam had held the trembling hobbit in his strong arms and helped him into bed, while a distraught Bilbo had rushed to fetch the healer.
Pneumonia, the healer had declared, and that single, terrible word still resounded in Sam’s head.
From that moment on, Bilbo and Sam never left Frodo’s room, taking turns by the young hobbit’s side day and night, and making sure he was never alone. Frodo had lain in feverish delirium in his bed for days, moaning and coughing in his restless sleep, while the healer had tried her best to cool down his fever and coax some water down the hobbit’s throat, to keep him hydrated.
But the worst was over now. Although Frodo was sleeping or semi-unconscious for most of the time, he had slowly begun to recover.
Sam sat beside the bed and touched Frodo’s forehead to test his temperature, in a gesture that had become strangely familiar in the last few days. As well as the sponge baths.
Sam’s place had always been in the garden and his strong hands were accustomed to plants and soil, seeds and water. They were not made for white, creamy skin and silken curly hair. Sam’s hands were made for garden tools and hard work, but Sam hadn’t hesitated when those same hands were needed to bring Frodo back to life.
Oh, but those hands could be delicate when they gently caressed sweaty tendrils away from Frodo’s eyes, when they wiped a damp cloth over his master’s forehead first and then over his neck and chest. So delicate that Frodo didn’t wake if he was peacefully sleeping, or soothing if he was struggling in his delirious fits.
Sam’s hands never trembled, save every time he had to unbutton Frodo’s nightshirt. Only then did Sam’s calloused fingers hesitate, on those tiny pearl buttons, until that nightshirt was open and Frodo’s body exposed to Sam’s eyes.
Sam had never realized how much he loved Frodo until that incident, until the very first time he had feared for his master’s life … Until he had to take care of him in a way he had never imagined before. The sight of that naked body had stirred something inside Sam that he had always refused to admit to himself. Sam was in love with Frodo, and what he thought was just loyalty and devotion was indeed the strongest kind of love Sam had ever felt.
Sam wrung out the cloth to get rid of the excess water and passed it delicately over Frodo’s brow and face. Then he stopped.
Frodo had opened his eyes and was smiling at him. His master was still terribly weak and feverish but, although his face showed all the signs of his recent suffering, that smile was so sweet and those blue eyes so intense that sudden tears blurred Sam’s vision.
Without thinking, Sam caught Frodo’s cold hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing it over and over, unable to say anything. It was the first time Frodo had smiled after that terrible day and Sam’s heart was threatening to burst with joy.
In that moment, Sam resolved that nothing bad could ever happen to Frodo again, not if he was by his side, not if Samwise Gamgee had the heart and the strength to take care of his beloved master.
Sam had learned a lot about Frodo since his arrival at Bag End and the first thing that the gardener ever realized was that Frodo was fragile in appearance only. He was indeed strong, in body and spirit, and despite the losses and sufferings that usually harden people’s hearts, Frodo’s kindness and charming manners had remained untouched and he was the sweetest hobbit Sam had ever met.
After a few weeks Frodo was on his way to a complete recovery and Sam and Bilbo were back to their usual daily routines, until that day when Bilbo thought it was time to go to Michel Delving to do some business and Frodo had asked Sam to stay and spend the night with him.
That night, no words were needed; Frodo’s eyes spoke about love and desire, in a language that only lovers can understand, in a silent invitation to join him in his bed, big enough to be comfortable for two.
That night Sam realized that his hands were capable of many other wonderful things, things that he had only dared to think of in his most secret dreams. He learned that there was no need for a sponge bath to undress Frodo and that he could unbutton that nightshirt for the sheer pleasure of it. He learned that his strong, calloused fingers were indeed feather-soft while caressing that pale, perfect body, while they traced every single inch of his master’s skin.
Sam had always known how to make things grow, just with love and care. All Sam’s skills, caring and love were now for Frodo only, for his pale rosy lips and petal soft skin. Sam was holding his Frodo, all his Frodo in his hands, coaxing him to life with his love, making him bloom like a garden flower, until they both lay sated and spent in Frodo’s bed, curled together under the covers.
When Bilbo got back and found the two hobbits still sleeping, he couldn’t suppress a fond, happy smile, because he knew that, when the time came, he was going to leave his beloved Frodo in Sam’s strong, loving and caring hands.