Frodo stood apart, admiring the graceful Party Tree, strung with multi-coloured lights. His foot tapped to the music, and he sniffed appreciatively of the finest fare the Dragon and Ivy Bush could muster.
“Mr. Frodo!” Marigold ran up, her ribbon-bedecked curls a-tumble. “Oh sir, thank you again for everything.” Her face was glowing. “No lass ever had a grander wedding.”
“No thanks are necessary, Marigold,” Frodo chided. “It does my crusty old bachelor’s heart good to see the Party Field dressed up again.”
“Crusty old bachelor? That will be news to our Sam, sir.” Marigold giggled pertly then whirled away like a windblown leaf, back to the arms of her Tom.
“You, a crusty old bachelor?” Sam’s outraged finger traced the contours of Frodo’s spine and shapely bare buttocks. Frodo shivered, toes involuntarily curling into the grass. “If the crust were made of satin, maybe, and the filling firm as a ripe peach, and if the whole belonged to me, now and forever. Otherwise, for shame, Frodo Baggins.”
“I forget sometimes, you see,” Frodo apologised. “I never expected this… you...”
“Then ‘tis my bounden duty to remind you, ain’t it.” Sam’s eyes glinted gold as he bent to his task.