Sam tilts his head up a little, puffs slowly into the air, and pulls another drag from his pipe. His chest rises up and down gently in a way that will never disturb the dozing form snuggling along his side. Sam smiles to himself. He never feels this content. He takes a deep breath, the air fresh, unsullied, mixed with the spiced trace of the weed and another. Sam bends down a little, burying his nose into the silken dark curls of Frodo’s hair, and breathes long and deep. It is sweet and heady – the scents he loves most. Frodo sighs in his sleep. Sam sits up again, shifting his attention back to his abandoned pipe, smoking from it, and sighs in bliss. He runs his fingers into Frodo’s hair and whispers, “Happy Birthday, Mr. Frodo.” There are no more wars or deaths. They are back in the Shire and cuddle into each other on his Mr. Frodo’s birthday. Sam cannot be happier.

~~~