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Chapter Text

Snow had started falling suddenly overnight, and the Shire woke up covered in a thickening white blanket that was rarely seen in these latitudes in Foreyule. There were still some weeks before the winter solstice festival, and Bilbo wondered if the snow was there to stay or if it would melt into mud and make the darkest month of the year even more miserable. 

She kept her thoughts to herself as she prepared the strong black coffee her lodger favoured, because she knew Thorin rarely communicated with more than grunts so early in the day. It had quickly become apparent that unlike Bilbo, the dwarrowdam was not a morning person, and anything the hobbit tried to say before coffee would fly over her head. The first few weeks Bilbo had kept chattering nervously and asking all kinds of questions to keep the conversation going, as she prepared elaborate breakfasts to share, but she had quickly realised that it only made Thorin reluctant to stay in the same room, so she now remained quiet and observed. 

Quiet on the outside, at least. Inside, Bilbo's thoughts tumbled like the snowflakes caught in the fierce wind outside she could see from the kitchen’s window. She watched Thorin from the corner of her eye as the dwarrowdam stirred her coffee, still half-asleep, her thick, calloused hands oddly gentle with the delicate cup. Bilbo wondered how those same hands could forge steel with such precision, turning cold iron into tools and ornaments that gleamed like captured starlight, and then twist and bend the long dark strands of hair into the neat braids that framed her face. She wondered which other kind of delicate work they were capable of. She wondered…

Blushing to the tips of her pointy ears, Bilbo ducked her head over the kitchen counter and busied herself slicing more bread that didn’t really need slicing, trying to find a reason to speak without sounding foolish, eager, transparent. She wasn’t sure when her admiration had turned into something sharper, something that twisted in her chest when Thorin suddenly said something about the state of the roads back to the Blue Mountains with all that snow. The thought of her leaving felt as heavy as the winter sky. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to stay?” she ventured, keeping her voice conversationally light. “The snow might not let up until the new year or…further. Travel could be… dangerous now”.

Thorin’s dark brows furrowed slightly, the only sign she’d heard. After a long sip of coffee, she said: “Snow can’t be helped”. Her voice was low, still roughened by sleep. “But there’s little use staying if there’s no work”.

“There’s always work around Hobbiton” Bilbo said quickly, her heart pounding. “I’m sure you’ll get lots of orders for bobs and pieces… you know, for Yule gifts. Not to say the farmers will need tools when the snow melts. I… I have things that could use mending, too. The hinges on the pantry door, the gate latch…” 

She trailed off, embarrassed by her sudden eagerness. Thorin studied her with a thoughtful, unreadable expression that made Bilbo feel like she’d said too much… or not enough.  

After a moment, Thorin set down her cup and stood, stretching her neck and broad shoulders. Bilbo tried not to stare, but it was difficult. “I’ll look at the gate latch after dinner” she said gruffly. “I’m going down to the smithy now. If I’m to stay, best keep busy”.

Bilbo barely managed a nod, warmth spreading through her like the fire in the wood stove. It wasn’t a lot but it was enough, making sure Thorin will stay with her… that is, she will stay in the Shire a while longer. She tidied the remnants of breakfast from the table, unable to contain the bright smile that tugged at her lips now she was alone. 

Thorin had disappeared into the depths of the smial, where her bedroom was, probably to finish her morning ablutions. It was one of the smallest, windowless rooms, on the right-hand side of the smial (all the rooms with windows were on the opposite one). Bilbo had tried to put her in her best guest bedroom, just besides her own, but she had firmly rejected the offer. Thinking it was an issue of pride, Bilbo had insisted, saying it was absurd to keep a perfectly serviceable bedroom empty, but the dwarrowdam hadn´t caved. It was weeks before she admitted that she preferred to be as deeply underground as possible to sleep. 

It was a cosy bedroom, though honestly it hadn't been much more than a storage room with an old but comfortable enough bed that had rarely been used, as Bilbo was not prone to hosting big parties like her parents had been.  The rooms were too many for a pitiful spinster like her, as Lobeli liked to remind her on every possible occasion. 

The great smial, built on top of the Hill by her father as a wedding gift for her adventurous wife, had indeed numerous bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries,  wardrobes, receiving rooms… all on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage which burrowed gently into the hill, its panelled walls and ceilings curved, but broad and high enough to accommodate even Tall folk, and so Thorin, who was nearly a foot taller than Bilbo, didn’t need to bend her proud head anywhere in the smial, not even in the small underhill bedroom she had chosen. 

“I’m leaving now”, came Thorin’s voice from the hallway, breaking Bilbo´s musings. “Have a good day…and take care if you go out”.

Bilbo, realising she was still beaming like an idiot as she scrubbed the plates clean, tamed her expression into something more proper before going to the door to see her out. She leaned into the threshold between the hallway and her parlor, quietly observing, as she found herself doing way too often lately.  

Thorin was wearing her usual sturdy cotton shirt and trousers(***), the blue-coloured ones this time, over which she’d thrown a thick woolen vest that Bilbo suspected she’d knitted herself, and draped nearly to her knees. No frills, no nonsense, but clearly not enough for the cold. She had at least had the sense to put on the wool leg warmers Bilbo had lent her (really given, but dwarrowfolk were stubborn about gifts and so she had been careful about her wording), in addition to some thick wool socks she tugged on before putting on her metal-capped boots. Bilbo’s policies were strict: no shoes beyond the entrance hall. Thorin’s heavy cloak, trimmed with fur on the neck, was sturdy but plain, and Bilbo couldn’t help fretting over how little protection it offered against the biting wind that could be heard whipping outside as Thorin tugged her thick leather gloves into place, her breath fogging even though she was still inside the closed door of the smial. 

“Wait a moment", said Bilbo, ducking back into the parlour. She rummaged through the knitting basket she kept near her armchair until she found what she was looking for, a thick woollen hat she’d entertained herself knitting these last few days, using a deep, stormy blue that went perfectly well with the clothes Thorin was wearing. It wasn’t perfect (the stitching wobbled slightly where she’d lost count, but she was no artisan and it was warm and sturdy, and that mattered far more.

Thorin raised an eyebrow when Bilbo reappeared, breathless, clutching the hat in both hands. “Here", Bilbo said briskly, pushing it toward her. “No use catching icicles on your big round ears".

For a moment, she thought Thorin might refuse, pride flashing briefly in her stormy eyes. But then the dwarrowdam exhaled through her nose, half a sigh, half a laugh, and took the hat with a slow, careful nod: “Thank you for your loan".

Bilbo’s heart thudded as she watched Thorin pull the hat snugly over her dark braids. It fit perfectly, covering her strange ears, which indeed were very big and round, against the wind. She looked….well, she looked handsome, in a rugged, windswept way that made Bilbo feel absurdly warm despite the cold.

“Don’t be late for dinner", Bilbo managed, her voice suspiciously unsteady.

Thorin grunted an acknowledgment and strode off downhill toward the smithy, easily cutting a path through the falling snow. Bilbo lingered on the step of her smial, watching until she disappeared into the swirling white.

Chapter Text

Trying to shake the melancholy that suddenly engulfed her when Thorin left Bag End, Bilbo closed the round door firmly and headed to the pantry, determined to take stock of their supplies. Snow this early in Foreyule was unusual for the Shire, and if it kept falling, they might get snowed-in before the solstice. Best to be prepared for the worst. 

She lit a lantern and surveyed the shelves with a practiced eye. Jars of pickled summer vegetables gleamed in neat rows, while sacks of flour, sugar, and dried beans were stacked beneath. She’d made sure to buy extra when she’d accepted her lodger, and really Thorin wasn´t eating as much as the hobbit had expected considering her bulk. There were still a few baskets of potatoes, carrots and turnips from the last harvest, though she’d need more, and probably also fruit and other greens, if any could still be found at the market. She made a mental note to buy extra spices and cured meat as well.

As she examined the shelves, her mind drifted to that first time she'd seen Thorin in the smithy. The dwarf had arrived when the leaves were still budding in the trees. The other hobbits saw what they expected to see: a traveling dwarf smith of solid build and impressive beard (at least for hobbit standards, Thorin kept hers neatly trimmed and barely a couple inches long, not enough to braid), who wore practical leather breeches when working the anvil, and spoke in the low, gruff tones typical of dwarven folk. Hence most of the townsfolk had assumed she was male, as Bilbo herself had, until she’d overheard Thorin correcting the miller with a sharpness that brooked no further assumptions. The memory still made Bilbo smile. It had been a shock, but a welcome one. A dwarrowdam smith, here, in the sleepy Shire! Bilbo had been drawn to her immediately, though she couldn’t quite explain why, not at first.  

She’d learned that Thorin had been sleeping for a few weeks in the back of the smithy, too proud (or too stubborn) to pay for a room at the inn. The idea had unsettled Bilbo. It must be so drafty! And full of fumes! So she had devised a plan: she’d approached Thorin with an air of businesslike efficiency, examining the new pan she’d ordered before offering her the spare room at a “reasonable” rate. “Bag End is too big for just me", she’d explained briskly, “and I could use the extra coin".

It had been a complete fabrication (everyone in Hobbiton knew Bilbo didn’t need the money at all) but she’d guessed that offering the room as charity would only offend Thorin’s pride. To her relief, the dwarrowdam had agreed after only a moment’s hesitation, though she’d insisted on paying for a month of her lodgings in advance, her coins laid out with near-military precision over the same counter in the smithy where Bilbo had laid her own payment a few minutes before. 

Since then, their lives had settled into a quiet, companionable rhythm. Bilbo treasured those small routines: sharing breakfast, exchanging brief conversations during dinner, sometimes sitting together by the hearth afterwards, smoking in companionable silence, or reading. Their friendship, if it could be called so, had been slow to grow. Sometimes, Thorin still felt like a figure carved from stone: distant, immovable, unreachable. Other times, they bonded through the most innocuous exchanges. Their mutual love for literature was one. Bilbo loved hearing her read out loud, and she cherished the one time she’d heard her sing, a brief tune that spoke of the ancient historical feat they’d be reading about.   

A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows, snapping her out of her thoughts. No use daydreaming when there’s work to be done, she told herself firmly. Grabbing her basket, she bundled into her thick winter coat, adding an extra knitted sweater and woollen leggings beneath her skirt. Her feet remained bare, as hobbit feet always were, their tough soles impervious even to the biting frost.

She wrapped a long, scarlet scarf around her neck, tucking it securely into her coat after making sure it covered her ears against the wind’s sharp bite. The scarf had been a gift from her aunt Donnamira last Yule, though she wondered now if she might get away with actually gifting a similar one to Thorin in Yule, explaining it was traditional for hobbits to exchange gifts then. The dwarrowdam wasn’t one for fripperies, but even she couldn’t deny the necessity of warmth in this weather.

Shaking herself from her reverie, Bilbo grabbed her shopping basket and stepped out into the swirling snow. The wind bit at her cheeks, but she kept her chin high and her pace brisk: she had a mission to fulfill. They were well-stocked for now, but if the snow lasted, they’d need more firewood, root vegetables, and dried goods to see through a few weeks in case they were snowed in. 

The market was lively despite the snow, with hobbits bundled in wool cloaks and colourful scarves, bustling from stall to stall in search of winter provisions and early Yule gifts. As she made her usual rounds, Bilbo took every opportunity to slip Thorin’s name into the conversation. She planted ideas around like seeds in winter soil, trusting they would take root. If the orders came in, Thorin would have more reason to stay, at least through Yule. Perhaps longer.

“Oh, you know, Thorin at the smithy’s been taking custom orders for Yule gifts", she said brightly while admiring a bolt of fabric at Mistress Goodwort’s stand. “She’s a master with metalwork… there’s nothing she can’t craft: bracelets, hair clasps… even those clever little toys for the young ones. Have you seen the mechanical bird she made for the miller’s lad last spring? Chirps just like the real thing!”

That had certainly caught their attention. Hobbits might be slow to trust outsiders, but they were quick to appreciate fine craftsmanship, especially when Yule was fast approaching and unique gifts were in high demand. Bilbo had seen the spark of interest in many eyes, already calculating what they might commission.

Hobbits like cleaning and repairing everything before the new year—they considered it a way to clear out the weight of the old year, making room for whatever the next might bring. Every year, Bilbo followed the tradition faithfully, scrubbing floors until they gleamed, mending worn hems, and polishing brass fixtures until they shone.

After returning from the market, Bilbo set to work with single-minded focus. She polished the front door’s brass knocker until it gleamed like new, then set to patching the hearth rug with careful, even stitches. The cracked pantry hinge would need fixing next, though she suspected Thorin might have already added it to her mental list of things to repair.  

Bilbo’s needle paused as she thought of what the dwarrowdam might be doing now, bent over her anvil, hammering with that same quiet intensity she brought to everything she did. If she closed her eyes, she could picture Thorin’s strong hands shaping stubborn metal as if it was dough. Bilbo had always admired dwarrow craftsmanship, how they could take something cold and unyielding as metal and forge it into something beautiful and enduring.  

She sighed and unfolded the mended rug neatly on the floor. If she couldn’t mend her restless heart as easily as she mended worn cloth, she’d just have to live with it, keep her hands and mind as busy as possible. So she went to the kitchen to start the stew early, letting the root vegetables, beans, smoked sausage and dried mushrooms slowly transform the broth into something rich and earthy. The scent of rosemary and thyme mingled with woodsmoke, creating the particular comfort that only came with winter cooking. Her stomach growled, but she wouldn't eat more than a scone with a spot of tea until Thorin returned.

While she waited, it began to grow darker outside, and she didn’t get up to light the sconces on the wall just yet. She was mesmerised watching the snowflakes dancing outside, the frost creeping up the windowpanes like delicate ferns unfurling their leaves, each crystalline pattern unique in its intricate dance across the glass. Bilbo pressed her small hand against the window, feeling the bite of cold through the pane, and watched her breath form clouds against the transparency. 

Only when the light faded to dark grey, Bilbo heard the familiar heavy tread of iron-shod boots on the front path. She moved away from the window, straightening her shawl and checking the stew one last time. The key turned in the lock. Thorin always used the key (though Bilbo had told her a hundred times to simply walk in, as the latch was always open at day, and very often at night) and with the opening door came a rush of frigid air and a vigorous stomping noise that must be caused by those dreadful boots as the dwarf tried to dislodge the snow from the soles. 

"By Mahal", Thorin’s low rumble carried easily from the entrance hall, followed by the sounds of her boots being carefully lined near the door and the rush of cloth as her heavy coat was hung: "it's cold enough to freeze the beard off any dwarrow. The water barrel at the smithy had ice thick as my thumb this morning".

Bilbo smiled as she ladled the stew into bowls – a larger portion for her guest, who worked hard at the forge all day – and set them on the kitchen table. "Then you're just in time. Come warm yourself by the fire and tell me about your day".

The dwarf appeared in the doorway, cheeks ruddy from the cold, dark beard dusted with melting snowflakes. In the privacy of their shared evening meal, Thorin’s shoulders relaxed, her voice softening to its natural register as she pulled up a chair. The firelight caught the silver beads woven into her braids, tiny yet intricate things that most assumed were merely decorative, but which Bilbo knew (because she had asked) marked her as a master smith among dwarrow.

The stew steamed between them, smelling rich with the herbs Bilbo had preserved from her summer garden. Thorin broke a thick slice of dark rye bread, its crust crackling, and dunked it into the broth, before devouring the piece in a couple bits, her eyes closed in bliss. Bilbo watched her, relishing her obvious enjoyment. 

"I've never known winter to bite so early… at least not in many years", began Bilbo. Weather was always a good conversation starter. "Usually, we'd still have some autumn warmth lingering. But this… " she gestured toward the window, where snowflakes danced past the frosted glass “… this feels different".

Thorin paused, her spoon hovering midway between bowl and mouth. "Where I come from, this would be considered a mild day", she said, a hint of something (nostalgia, perhaps?) softening her voice. "In the mountain, we'd measure snow in heights taller than three dwarrow stacked atop each other. The tunnels would be sealed, fires kept burning constantly, entire communities living in interconnected chambers".

Bilbo leaned forward, curiosity sparking in her eyes. Thorin had been her lodger for months now, always kind, always helpful, but perpetually mysterious about her culture. "Tell me more", she prompted, hoping the warmth of the meal might loosen the dwarf's typically guarded tongue. "You've been here months", Bilbo continued, "and I know so little about you.." She caught herself, recognizing she might be pushing too hard, and softened her approach. "I mean, I'm simply curious about dwarrow winter traditions. We hobbits, we have our Yule celebrations. Green branches everywhere, the Yule log burning, mistletoe hanging from every threshold. It's a time of light and gathering. And gifts, of course!".

“I’ve heard a lot about Yule gifts today”. Thorin’s beard twitched. A smile, Bilbo though, hidden beneath all that hair. "It surprises me that people here give gifts so freely but… it’s good for business, so I can’t complain”.

Bilbo blushed, satisfied but self-conscious about her intervention. “Don’t dwarrow give gifts for Yule?”

“We… we don’t. It’s more complicated than that, but the short answer is no. We don’t celebrate Yule, besides. We have something similar, though different. The winter solstice for us is the Light Festival. Not about big social celebrations, precisely, but quiet contemplation… remembrance of the last years and hope for renewal. The shortest day marks our New year. In the mountain, we'd light thousands of lanterns, each representing a hope, a prayer, a promise for the year to come".

She took another spoonful of stew, her eyes growing distant as she chewed slowly before continuing. "Every lantern is carefully crafted. Some by children just learning metalwork, some by master artisans, though it’s preferred to have them crafted by a family member, and they are considered valued heirlooms. They'd be hung from the ceilings, reflecting off polished stone walls until the entire space glows like an underground constellation".

Bilbo watched, fascinated. This was more than Thorin had shared in all their previous months living together. The firelight caught the silver strands in her temple, made the intricate braids shimmer. 

"Do you miss it?" Bilbo asked softly. "The mountain, your people?"

Thorin’s hand, holding a spoon back to her mouth, paused. For just a moment, something vulnerable flickered in her eyes. Then she broke another piece of bread, and the moment passed.

"Every smith needs to travel outside to sell their craft" she said, her voice returning to its usual measured tone. "It is our way".

Outside, the wind continued its winter song, pressing against the windows. Inside, the fire crackled, and the quiet of the evening grew heavy with unspoken tension. Bilbo's curiosity, usually kept carefully contained, began to overflow like a pot left too long on the fire. Her questions came faster, sharper, less measured than her usual gentle conversation.

"But why here, in the Shire?" she pressed, leaning forward. "Of all the towns, all the places a skilled smith could choose, why this small village?" Her hands twisted the edge of her apron, a nervous habit she'd never quite conquered.

Thorin's posture changed imperceptibly. The openness of moments before shuttered closed, like a forge door slamming shut. "A smith travels", she repeated, her words clipped and final.

Bilbo recognized her mistake but couldn't seem to stop herself. "But surely there's more to it. Are you seeking something?" The questions tumbled out, each more invasive than the last. “Or are you… running?”

The silence that followed was brittle as winter ice. Thorin's eyes, previously warm, now held a distant, guarded look. She got up and began clearing the dishes with precise, controlled movements that spoke volumes about her desire to end the conversation.

"I don’t run from anything. Now please excuse me. It’s late", Thorin said simply, her voice stripped of its earlier warmth. And she disappeared into the unlit depths of Bag End, for she didn’t need a candle to see underhill. 

Bilbo watched her go, a knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. She knew she'd overstepped, pushed too hard against the carefully constructed walls her lodger had built. The house seemed to grow colder with each step Thorin took towards her room. Bilbo kept herself busy, washing the dishes and starting the dough for tomorrow’s bread, trying not to think, to will the guilt away, but to no avail.

Long after the house had gone quiet, when she finally went to bed, she lay awake for what seemed long hours, turning and twisting beneath her quilts. The moonlight cast strange shadows across her bedroom, and her mind raced. She had wanted to strengthen their connection and instead, she had driven Thorin further away.

Chapter Text

When the first grey light of dawn crept through her window, Bilbo was already awake. Restlessness and a desperate need to make amends drove her to the kitchen. She needed to apologise, and what better way than through the universal language of sweetness?

She pulled out her mother's old recipe book, its pages stained with years of baking, the handwriting wobbly and almost illegible in places. Soon she found what she had remembered but never tried herself: a honey spice cake, typical dwarf desert. She was pretty sure she'd heard Thorin mention once that it was a favorite from her childhood. The recipe was complex, requiring a delicate balance of honey, spices, and a particular brisk mixing technique for achieving the dense yet moist texture. As she worked, she wondered how Belladonna had acquired that particular recipe… she hadn’t any dwarrow friends, as far as Bilbo knew.

Flour dusted her hands. Honey—the good stuff, stored in crocks from last summer's harvest—dripped from her spoon. Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and cardamom filled the kitchen with a warmth that seemed to push back against the winter's chill. A strong pot of coffee (the secret ingredient) was brewing, with enough left for Thorin to drink when she woke up.

About an hour later, the honey cake cooled on the windowsill. Steam rose from its golden-brown surface, and Bilbo’s stomach growled. She’d foregone first breakfast on her zealous quest.

“Is that… halwulmasabsulkasab?”. 

Bilbo laughed nervously. “I have never heard that name, so I couldn’t quite possibly answer you. My mother wrote the recipe, dwarven honey cake, you see, and I thought it was as good a time as any to try it…”

“It smells like halwulmasabsulkasab”. The tone was almost reverent. 

Her thick fingers hovered just above the cake’s golden surface, and for a fleeting moment, her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips—a gesture Bilbo found far too endearing for her peace of mind.

Before she could lose her nerve, Bilbo blurted, “I need to say something. Just... let me finish, and then we can forget all about it”.

Thorin’s brow furrowed, but she nodded slowly.

Bilbo took a steadying breath. “I was… intrusive last night”. Her cheeks flushed deep rose, but she pressed on. “It was very rude, and I won’t do it again. I apologise… I really do… most sincerely”.

The corner of Thorin’s mouth twitched under her beard, a subtle, almost-smile that Bilbo was beginning to recognize.

“Halflings are known for their curiosity”, Thorin said at last, shrugging and setting to cutting a thick slice of cake with an eager expression. She lifted it to her mouth and bit down. The first taste seemed to catch her off guard. Her dark eyes widened, and she mumbled through the mouthful, “This tastes… like my mother’s recipe”. 

“Does it?” Bilbo chuckled. “A good thing, I hope?”

“Very good”, Thorin answered solemnly, already reaching for another slice.

Bilbo beamed for a second but then her smile faltered, and dropped entirely.

“What did you just call me?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

Thorin froze mid-bite, chewing slower and slower under the weight of Bilbo’s glare. With deliberate care, she set the half-eaten slice on her plate and reached for her cup of coffee. She took a long sip, clearing her mouth, looking wary.

“...What?” she ventured cautiously. “Did I… did you…?”

It was clear she had no idea what Bilbo was on about, which only made Bilbo glare harder. Thorin shifted uncomfortably, choking on a crumb in her haste to drink more coffee.

“You called me halfling!” Bilbo snapped, leaning over the table with her fists clenched, invading her lodger’s space, hoping she looked more intimidating than her small frame suggested.

Thorin’s cheeks burned red. Her gaze dropped resolutely to the tablecloth.

“I… apologise?” she offered, though it sounded more like a hesitant question than a proper apology.

Bilbo huffed. “I am not half of anything!”

For a moment, there was stunned silence—and then, to Bilbo’s astonishment, Thorin’s lips twitched again. This time, she couldn’t quite smother the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Bilbo narrowed her eyes. “Is something funny?”

“...No.” Thorin coughed, straightening in her chair, though her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “Not at all”.

Bilbo folded her arms, still glaring, though her cheeks were flushed more from suppressed laughter than real anger. “Honestly... Dwarves!”  

Thorin raised an eyebrow, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes gleaming with mischief. “We are a famously difficult folk,” she admitted, reaching for another slice of cake with deliberate calm.  

“Stubborn as stone and twice as thick-headed,” Bilbo muttered, though there was no real venom in her voice.  

Thorin took a slow, thoughtful bite of the cake, chewing with exaggerated contemplation. “And hobbits are not stubborn, I suppose? Just… persistent?”  

“Persistent implies purpose,” Bilbo shot back. “We’re tenacious. There’s a difference.”  

“Ah.” Thorin nodded sagely. “I see. So when you badgered half the market into placing Yule orders at the smithy, that was... tenacity?”  

Bilbo gasped, scandalized. “I mentioned your skills politely! It’s hardly badgering to tell the truth.”  

“Is that what you call it?” Thorin’s mouth quirked into something dangerously close to a smirk.  

Bilbo straightened, indignant. “Well, I could stop recommending you, if you’re so ungrateful.”  

“I never said I was ungrateful,” Thorin said, her voice low and steady. “I’m just wondering if I should be charging you commission.”  

Bilbo stared at her, momentarily struck speechless. Then she burst out laughing, the sound warm and bright in the small kitchen.  

“You help me with the winter cleaning. That’s my commission”, she said, finally. 

Thorin nodded, and continued sipping reached her coffee slowly, letting the silence settle, comfortable now, the air warmer despite the snow still piling outside.

Chapter Text

It was only later, when Thorin had gone out to the smithy again and Bilbo started scouring her parent’s wardrobe for any wool items that could be adapted to fit Thorin’s broad frame, that something inside Bilbo's chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with a dawning realisation.

She realized, with a sudden clarity that made her breath catch, that her interest in Thorin was more than mere curiosity about dwarven culture, more than mere desire for friendship. The way her heart quickened when Thorin entered a room, the hours she spent thinking about the dwarf woman's stories, the care she'd taken with the honey cake, her obsession now with finding clothes so she would be warm… these were not simply the actions of a spinster taking care of her lodger.

It was a crush. A proper, heart-racing, palm-sweating crush.

The revelation made her simultaneously terrified and thrilled. Hobbits were not known for being particularly forward in amorous liaisons, at least not publicly, and as far as she knew dwarrow were even more private about such matters. It made her wonder, not for the first time, what the Thorin thought of her.

As she examined her reflection in the big mirror in her bedroom, she couldn’t help finding himself lacking; Although she could not consider herself a true beauty, Bilbo knew was quite comely, in hobbit terms, and she had had her fair share of suitors as a tween, before she made it clear she was not interested in marriage. But dwarrow beauty? That was something entirely different.

As Bilbo reached up to the high shelves of the cupboard, stretching on her tiptoes, she was acutely aware of her own body. Hobbits were small, yes, but usually pleasantly rounded. Thorin was strength incarnate. Where hobbits were soft and small, she was all compact muscle and dense bone. Her beard—which most hobbits would find intimidating—which covered the lower part of her face, but her visible features were noble and graceful, long lines that contrasted with Bilbo’s own face. 

Hobbits had always measured beauty against the language of growing things. Beauty was not about perfection, but about vitality, about the way life expressed itself in colour and form. Her eyes were the deep shade of evergreen pine needles in the heart of winter, which symbolised her resilient, independent personality. Her hair was the impossible shade between gold and flame, that reminded of the warmth of winter hearths but also of marigold hearts in springs, which stood for her creative drive, but also her melancholic tendencies that overcame her periodically. 

Her skin, still holding the memory of summer, was the warm brown of rich soil after rain, scattered with freckles that faded like autumn leaves—delicate constellations mapping her past summers. Her body was naturally soft and curvy like a stone fruit, though she was more slender than most hobbit women were, with her fondness for long walks, and her penchant for tree climbing. Her feet, well… they were big with sturdy, dexterous toes, and lusciously furred, like hobbit feet should be, though she doubted they were a feature the dwarf had noticed, or cared about, seeing Bilbo was yet to see her without the thick abominations she called socks, which she insisted on keeping on inside. At least she had known to take her heavy boots off as soon as she first crossed Bag End’s threshold.  

Her parent´s old winter clothes—thick woolen skirts and trousers, layered undershirts, knitted shawls and cardigans—tumbled down around her. Each piece was carefully mended, but still had a lot of life in them. Surely Thorin wouldn’t look down on them. Dwarrow culture was measured beauty in skill, in endurance, in the intricate details of craft. A perfectly forged blade was as beautiful to them as the most elaborate ballad was to an elf, or a perfectly tended garden was to a hobbit.

Bilbo sighed, and started picking around the scattered clothes, measuring them against her own body. Only a few would be big enough. Perhaps she could unpick some of the seams and craft something bigger? But she would need Thorin´s measurements for that. Would it be too improper to go through some of Thorin´s stuff while she was at the smithy, just to get the sizes right? The dwarrowdam was very private with her own clothes, and she did her own laundry. As far as Bilbo knew, she had only a few spares besides the ones that she was using. 

Decision made, she dusted off her hands, rolled up her sleeves, and marched down the hall toward Thorin’s room—a tiny, windowless space she’d stubbornly insisted was “perfectly adequate” when she first moved in. Bilbo had offered the guest room besides her own, with its sunny window overlooking the garden, but the dwarrowdam had refused, muttering something about privacy and stone-like walls being more familiar.

The bed was narrow and neatly made, with a heavy woolen blanket folded at the foot. A sturdy chest sat at the foot of the bed, its brass fittings polished to a dull gleam. Bilbo hesitated, fingers grazing the cool wood.

Could she really go through the dwarf’s things? The thought made her cheeks warm with both guilt and stubborn resolve. She wasn’t prying—not truly. This was about practicality. Thorin needed clothes, and Bilbo had the skills to make them. The memory of the dwarrowdam working tirelessly in the freezing smithy, her breath frosting the air, clenched Bilbo’s heart with sudden ferocity.

“This is for a good cause,” she reminded herself firmly. “Nothing improper.”

The chest opened with a low creak, revealing precisely folded garments: a couple of spare linen shirts, a neatly patched pair of trousers, and a thick knitted vest that had seen better days. Bilbo took them carefully, noting the width of the shoulders, the length of the sleeves—everything broader and longer than any hobbit’s measurements.

She laid the shirt across her arms, studying the rough stitching and worn cuffs. Clearly hand-made, but functional, built to endure. Her fingers lingered over the fabric, imagining Thorin’s strong, capable hands fastening the buttons each morning.

Stop daydreaming, she scolded herself, cheeks flaming.

She returned to her own room with the shirt and trousers in tow, her mind already calculating seam allowances and fabric stretches. Some of her father’s old shirts could be unpicked and widened—she could even patch his trousers with extra wool from the skirts. The mental picture of Thorin wearing something she’d sewn made her chest tighten again, with something far warmer than embarrassment.

By the time she laid out her sewing kit and sorted the clothes into neat piles, Bilbo felt more settled, her purpose clearer. This was about kindness—hospitality, she assured herself. It had nothing to do with how she felt seeing Thorin smile, or how her pulse quickened when their hands brushed.

Nothing at all.

When she finished constructing a rough sizing pattern, Bilbo folded Thorin’s clothes with care, smoothing each crease with deliberate tenderness. She set them neatly back into the chest, exactly as she’d found them, and closed the lid with a soft click. 

Chapter Text

Past midday already, she realized when she came back to the front part of Bag End, noticing how the sun was now shining straight through the front door´s window into the paneled floors of the entrance hall. Her stomach rumbled in reminder… it had been hours since breakfast, and the chill in the air only sharpened her hunger.

Deciding a trip to town to get some fresh baked goods  would be just the thing, she threw on her thick winter coat, wrapped a woolen scarf tightly around her neck, and grabbed her shopping basket from its peg by the door. The fresh, crisp air hit her cheeks as she stepped outside, the snow crunching under her bare, furred feet.

The snow had deepened considerably overnight, piling in thick drifts along the winding lane that descended from the Hill into Hobbiton proper. Bilbo tugged her scarf  tighter around her head as she walked carefully on the outer borders of the road to avoid sliding on slippery central patches, her bare feet leaving crisp impressions when she treaded on undisturbed snow. 

When she crossed the river she saw it had frozen solid now, its surface smooth and glimmering like enchanted glass. From the stone bridge, she could see the ice stretching all the way down to Bywatwr and beyond, to the round pond near the small waterfall that marked the boundary between the West and East Farthings. 

Children, bundled in mismatched scarves and mittens, were playing in the snow near the frozen river. The smallest building snow hobbits and the oldest engaged in fierce snow battles, shrieking with delight. Their mothers called after them, half-scolding, half-laughing, the sound carrying through the still, wintry air.

Bilbo lingered for a moment, watching the scene with a soft smile, before continuing down the main road. Smoke rose steadily from the chimneys cropping from the snow covered hills burrowed deep with smials on both sides, and she saw that most round doors were strung with pine bough crowns in early Yule preparation. The streets bustled, despite the cold—hobbits, after all, never let a bit of snow get in the way of their daily routines.

She made straight for the bakery, exchanging pleasantries with familiar faces along the way. Inside, the warmth and delicious smells enveloped her. Shelves were piled high with loaves of crusty bread, sweet rolls glazed with sugar, and pies still steaming from the oven.

“Good day, Miss Baggins!” called the baker, a stout hobbit with flour-dusted overalls. “Here for something special today?”

“Just something warm and fresh”, Bilbo replied, eyes sparkling as she surveyed the offerings. “Perhaps a few of those apple-cinnamon scones, some hand pies... and a surdough loaf if you’ve got one left”.

“Of course I have!” The baker bustled about, wrapping the goods in parchment paper. “Cold enough to freeze your toes off, but Yule baking keeps us warm, eh?”

“Indeed… don’t remember the last time there was quite that much snow in Foreyule”, replied Bilbo. 

“The fauntlings are loving it. My oldest has been pestering me about that old sledge we have in the garden shed, but the slides have gone rusty and… you know if your dwarf could fix something like that?” 

Her dwarf? Bilbo tried not to blush. “I’m sure it will be very easy for her. Just bring it over to the forge”.

“Well, thank you!  And see you tomorrow, Miss Baggins!”.

Bilbo thanked him warmly and bid him goodbye, eager to see how Thorin was doing. Perhaps she hadn’t had lunch just yet. When she rounded the corner toward the smithy, she was surprised to see a small queue already forming outside the low stone workshop. Several hobbits stood stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together for warmth, chatting in low, excited tones.

Bilbo blinked in surprise. “Well now… looks like word has indeed spread", she murmured to herself, pleased.

There was a handwritten note on the door: “Work in progress. Wait outside for your turn”. Well, that explained the queue, but it couldn’t be good for business. 

She pushed the door open. Inside, the fire of the forge roared, the air smelling of the sharp tang of hot metal. She could hear some muted rhythmic clicking, though the main anvil was empty. When she turned to the right, she saw Thorin was sitting slouched over her workbench in a corner, sleeves rolled up, dark hair pulled back into a tight braid. She was focused on engraving a delicate silver clasp, her expression one of intense concentration.

Bilbo hesitated, unwilling to disturb her, but before she could slip back outside, Thorin looked up, her eyes softening just a fraction when she saw who it was.

“Busy?” Bilbo ventured.

Thorin set the clasp aside carefully. “Busier than I expected". 

Bilbo nodded toward the doorway, where more customers were waiting. “Why do you have them waiting outside?”

“I can’t concentrate with them chattering here”, replied Thorin, bent again for her work, a crease forming between her mighty brows as she squinted. 

“Hobbits are not known for their patience”, insisted Bilbo. She was a little miffed Thorin hadn’t mentioned the delicious smell of the newly baked hand pies yet.

Thorin looked up again. “Could you help me write down their orders, since it is all your doing?”

Bilbo huffed: “My doing? Perhaps I mentioned to a few friends that you take custom orders... and that you’re quite the skilled craftswoman. Aren’t you grateful?”. 

Thorin exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “I am. Thank you".

Bilbo waved the thanks away. “I will help you… if you eat this meat hand pie”. 

She put it on the workbench, a few handspans away from Thorin’s work, careful not to disturb any of the tools and detailed drawings that were scattered over the wooden surface. 

“You drive a hard bargain”, grunted Thorin, already reaching for the enticing pie.  

Bilbo smiled satisfied when she saw the other woman bite into the crust, and turning on her heels, settled to work, speaking with the queue of hobbits, pencil and paper in hand. It was more than half an hour before she could come back to the workshop. Hobbits got chatty when they were excited. And after birthdays, Yule was the second favourite holiday for hobbits, who just loved giving gifts. 

“Here are the orders. I hope you understand my handwriting. If not… you know where to find me”. She laughed uncomfortably, and yet she lingered, trying to find the best way of phrasing what she wanted to ask. She tried for casual:  “Do you... think you’ll be staying through Yule, then? With all these orders coming in?”

Thorin paused, considering. “Aye. It seems I will".

Bilbo’s smile widened, though she tried to keep her tone casual. “Good. Then we’ll need to find a proper Yule log for the hearth".

Thorin raised a curious brow. “A Yule log?”

“It’s tradition", Bilbo explained. “You burn the log from sundown on Yule Eve through the Twelve Days, to bring warmth and good fortune for the New Year".

Thorin nodded thoughtfully. “Very well. We’ll find a log then".

“We can go when you’ve finished these projects. Maybe on Sunday?", Bilbo suggested.

Thorin agreed. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, the warmth of the forge seemed almost unnecessary. Bilbo basked in it just a moment longer before stepping back into the cold, her heart lighter than it had been in days.

Chapter Text

The next few days, Bilbo worked away at her secret sewing project. They were ready rhe morning they’d arranged to go find the Yulelog, but Thorin had left early to work in the forge, so Bilbo left them in her bedroom before going out to find her just after midday, while the sun was still high (or as high as it ever was, in Foreyule). The new snow crunched very pleasantly under her bare feet as she made her way toward the smithy, where she knew Thorin would be finishing some of her commissions before their planned trip to the forest.  

Smoke rose steadily from the forge’s chimney. Bilbo smiled to herself hearing the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal yards before she was even near the closed door. There was something comforting about that sound, strong and steady, like the dwarrowdam herself.  

When she knocked on the door, the hammering ceased, and Thorin emerged from the forge, wiping soot-streaked hands on her leather apron. Her thick braids gleamed like polished iron in the winter sun, and her furrowed brows softened when she saw Bilbo waiting by the gate.  

“Ready?” Bilbo called cheerfully.  

Thorin nodded, trading her apron and heavy smithing gloves for fur-lined mittens and her winter cloak. She grabbed an axe and a few other tools Bilbo did not recognise and strapped them to her belt. “Let’s hope we find something worthy for that Yule log of yours".  

The walk to the small forest that grew beyond the pond in Bywater was brisk but pleasant. The air was crisp and cold, carrying the scent of snow and pine. They crossed the frozen pond carefully, Thorin offering her hand when the ice grew slippery. Bilbo accepted without comment, though her cheeks felt warmer than the weather warranted.  

“The ice conditions are perfect”, commented Thorin, stomping a bit in the ice once Bilbo was safe on the other shore. “I’m surprised there are any pebbles skating”.

“Pebbles?”, asked Bilbo. “And what is skating?”

Thorin gaped at her. She waved her hands and let her boots slide a little on the ice, mimicking some movements that were entirely foreign to the hobbit. 

"Skating" Thorin explained, still sliding a boot experimentally, "is when you wear special shoes with sharp metal blades on the bottom. You glide across the ice like this…" She shifted her weight and coasted a short distance, her leather coat flaring slightly behind her. "We used to skate on the Long Lake many years ago...”

Her usual gruff voice grew softer, and for a moment, her gaze seemed to drift far beyond the frozen pond in Bywater. Bilbo noticed the way Thorin’s shoulders tensed, as though holding back memories she wasn’t ready to share. So she moved the conversation in a lighter direction: “Sharp metal blades? That sounds... dangerous”.  

Thorin arched her brows, emphatically. "Dwarves like dangerous things as long as they're properly forged". She smiled a little wistfully before she added, "Besides, it's not the blades that are dangerous… it’s the falling. Ice is an unforgiving teacher. And if it breaks…"  

“I’ll take your word for it”, Bilbo said, shuddering, as she glanced warily at the pond's glassy surface. "Hobbits do not like deep water, frozen or not. We prefer to keep their feet firmly on the ground, thank you very much". 

Thorin’s lips twitched. “Well, I doubt there’s any skates that fit you anyway. With those feet like yours...”  

Bilbo laughed, lifting one furred foot from the snow. "Big feet are the pride of hobbitfolk. Thick soles, naturally warm, and better grip than any dwarven boot, I wager”. She wiggled her toes demonstratively. "We’ve no need for sharp spikes strapped to our feet”. 

“Maybe not”, said Thorin. “But you’d miss out on the fun of it.”  

Bilbo considered that, imagining herself wobbling across the ice on precarious metal blades. She could already picture the bruises she’d collect, and her inevitable tumble into the freezing water. She shuddered again.  

“Pebbles, though” she prompted, eager to change the subject before Thorin got any ideas about making her try. “You mentioned pebbles earlier. What did you mean by that?”  

Thorin’s smiled, and walked the few paces to the shore where Bilbo was standing. “Pebbles are what we call our young ones”.

“Pebbles?” Bilbo repeated, incredulous. “That’s a ridiculous name”.

Thorin shrugged. “They’re small, tough, and stubborn as stone”.

Bilbo smiled. “But for the small part, I see no difference with adult dwarves like you. Do these pebbles have beards too?”

Thorin laughed. The low, eerily musical sound echoed in the quiet, snow-covered canopy of trees as they continued walking into the small forest. 

She finally replied: “Of course they do. Though when they’re born, it’s just wisps on the chin and sideburns…soft as down. A proper beard doesn’t start coming in until decades later. The lucky ones might manage a decent moustache when they are fifty or so”. 

Bilbo blinked. “Fifty? But I’m fifty!”  

Thorin chuckled, clearly amused by the hobbit’s astonishment. “Surely you knew that dwarves age slower than hobbits. Some of us don’t grow a full beard until we’re a hundred or more. Mine didn’t come in properly until then”. 

Bilbo shook her head in wonder. “So how old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”  

Thorin tilted her head, considering the question with a faintly mischievous demeanour. “More than thrice and half your age”.

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “That would make you…”  

“Old enough”, Thorin interrupted smoothly, as usual wary about sharing any private information. “But still young for a dwarf”.  

They walked on in companionable silence, each lost to their own thoughts. The small forest stretched around them in peaceful stillness, its branches heavy with snow, casting long shadows across the ground.  

“Does the Yule log need to be a certain kind of tree?” Thorin asked after a while, scanning the snow-dappled landscape for fallen wood.  

Bilbo shook her head. “Not particularly, as long as it’s already fallen. It’s bad luck to cut it. But trees have meanings for hobbits, the same way flowers do”. 

Thorin raised an eyebrow, curious. “Do they? And what does oak represent?”  

Somewhere ahead, the distant call of a winter thrush echoed through the trees.  

Bilbo frowned, trying to recall the exact words from the old primer her mother had taught her with. “Strength, stability, and endurance. The acorn stands for fertility, renewal, and the promise of new beginnings.”  

Thorin nodded, humming in approval. “Then let’s find an oak”.

After some searching, Thorin halted, resting a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder to stop her. “There”. 

Bilbo followed her gaze and saw a large oak branch, lying half-buried in the snow. Its bark was gnarled and strong, the visible surface encrusted with frost.  

Thorin tapped it with the her iron-capped boots: “Good wood: dense, slow-burning".  

“It’s perfect” Bilbo agreed. 

Without another word, Thorin stepped forward and tested the log’s weight, muscles flexing beneath her heavy coat as she lifted one end. “I’ll carry it back”.   

“I surely can help…” started to say Bilbo. 

“You’ve done enough. And it will take longer to coordinate” Thorin said firmly, though not unkindly. “Besides, you promised me coffee and a new honey cake when we got back”. 

Bilbo laughed, warmth blooming in her chest: "Fair enough”.

Together, they started the trek back toward Bag End, the oak log balanced easily over Thorin’s strong shoulders. 

“So…", Bilbo ventured when they were both settled in Bag End’s warm kitchen, steaming coffee cakes and newly baked cake between them, “what kind of winter solstice traditions do you have? Besides smithing gifts for half the Shire, that is".  

She hoped the joking tone would be a better approach than her previous attempts to learn more about Thorin. 

Thorin’s mouth was too busy chewing cake to reply for some time. 

“Dwarves like crafting”, she started. “We take pride in our work”.

Bilbo hummed, biting her tongue for questions, letting the dwarf speak in her own time. Which she did, after inhaling another slice of cake and emptying her first cup of coffee.  

“Really, there aren’t many crafting traditions for the winter solstice besides the lanterns I told you about the other night. There are feasts, of course. Plenty of meat, ale, and sweet bread. And songs... very loud songs".  

“I knew there would be songs", Bilbo teased. “You’re far too serious, but I don’t buy it. I can just picture you bellowing some dwarvish ballad about axes and gold".  

“Axes and gold", Thorin confirmed gravely. “Though we’ve been known to sing about hearthfires and love and home, too. Not quite the same shine as battle and glory, though".  

They shared a quick smile, and none spoke for some time, content sipping their tea and munching on the cake. It was comfortable like this. Homey.

Too soon, however, Thorin got up, claiming she had some work to do in the smithy, and saying she’d be back for supper, perhaps, and that she could eat whatever Bilbo had left behind, no need to prepare anything in particular or wait her up. 

Bilbo swallowed her disappointment and feigned nonchalance as she commented, as if it was just an idea thst had occurred to her, and not something she’d been ruminating for some time: “I hope you’re ready to sing one of those hearthfire songs when we light this".  

Thorin paused, giving her a long, considering look before turning on her heels. Her voice carried from the hallway as she tugged her boots on: “...We’ll see".  

Bilbo grinned. We’ll see was practically a promise, coming from that tight-lipped dwarf.

Chapter Text

Bilbo stirred awake with the golden light of late morning streaming through her bedroom window. She stretched, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles that had worked harder than usual the day before. Memories of yesterday’s adventure in the snow—the laughter, the easy companionship, the tidbits she’d learnt about dwarrow culture—made her smile to herself as she nuzzled her nose against the warm pillows, enjoying the warmth of the bed.  

But suddenly her brow furrowed. She didn’t remember hearing Thorin come back last night. It must have been quite late. Bilbo glanced out of the window. Judging by the sun’s position, she had slept in later than she ever did.  

Throwing back the covers, she quickly shrugged on her house robe over her old, almost sheer sleeping chemise, not bothering to tie it closed. The chill of the air in the corridor spurred her forward as she padded silently toward the kitchen, anxiety prickling her thoughts. Had something happened to the dwarrowdam?  

Her worry was short-lived, though, as she came to an abrupt stop in the doorway. There, amid a chaos of utensils, flour, butter smudges, and cracked eggshells, stood Thorin, unmistakably cooking.  

Or, rather, attempting to cook.  

Bilbo’s hands went immediately to her hips, her untied robe flaring open with the motion. “What in the name of all that’s tidy do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her voice sharp with indignation and disbelief.  

Thorin froze, a wooden spoon clutched in one flour-dusted hand and heavy iron pan with a slightly misshapen pancake in the other. Her eyes darted to Bilbo, her cheeks immediately flushing a deep crimson, before she determinedly fixed her stare on the floor.  

“I…”  

“Don’t you ‘I’ me!” Bilbo interrupted, storming into the kitchen and gesturing wildly at the mess. “Butter smeared on the countertops, eggshells on the floor, flour scattered on… on everything! Do you know how long it’ll take to clean this up?”  

“I was just…”  

“Just making a disaster, by the looks of it!” Bilbo continued, her tirade picking up steam as she snatched up a rolling pin that had somehow ended up wedged between a jar of honey and a frying pan. “Rule one of cooking: clean as you go! It’s not hard! A little tidiness, a little consideration for the person who has to scrub this kitchen afterward—oh, wait, that’s me!”  

Thorin’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. The blush on her face spread to her ears, and she looked thoroughly chastised, her broad shoulders hunching slightly under Bilbo’s fierce glare.  

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the quiet sizzle of something frying in another pan on the stove. Finally, in a voice barely above a mutter, Thorin managed, “I was trying to make some dishes from home. It’s traditional for the winter solstice”.  

That gave Bilbo pause. Her hands, still on her hips, tightened their grip as she looked pointedly at the countertop and the frying pan. “And what exactly are you cooking?”  

“Halwakhfad” Thorin mumbled,  her eyes darting once to Bilbo before fixing  firmly on the floor again. “It’s a type of sweet pancake. And I made a savoury one as well, with potatoes and cheese. We call them Shargalath. They’re meant to bring luck for the new year”.

Bilbo sighed, exasperation mingling with the faintest pang of guilt. “You could’ve told me! I’d have helped!”  

“I wanted it to be a surprise”, Thorin admitted, her blush deepening further.  

Bilbo’s temper calmed a little at that, and she almost smiled, though she hid it by busying herself with tidying the counter. “Well, surprise achieved“, she muttered. “Next time, ask first, you big oaf”.

“Yes, ma’am“, Thorin said meekly, though her lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. 

“Now move over“, Bilbo huffed, tying her robe at last. “Let’s salvage whatever this is supposed to be before you burn down my kitchen”.  

Thorin obeyed without argument, her awkwardness fading as Bilbo began directing the cleanup and cooking with brisk efficiency. Though she still blushed whenever Bilbo shot her a sharp look, there was an undeniable fondness in her expression as she watched the hobbit take control of the chaos. 

“I was planning to clean when I finished”, Thorin explained, when they were both sitting at the table, two piles of golden pancakes and a steaming kettle between them, the kitchen once more spotlessly clean. “That’s what I do in the forge, I always clean before closing down for the day”.  

Bilbo gave her a skeptical look as she reached for a pancake. “Well, let’s hope your forge-cleaning skills are sharper than your kitchen ones, or else you’d end up putting the whole Hobbiton in flames” she teased, biting into the savoury pancake. She blinked, surprised by the rich flavor. It was soft and slightly tangy, with a hint of saltiness that paired surprisingly well with the crispy edges. “Actually, they’re quite good. Almost too good. Makes me think you might’ve been sabotaging the kitchen just now to avoid me suggesting you cook more often”.  

Thorin shook her head, expression earnest, her blush lingering on her cheeks in a most becoming way. “I wouldn’t dare. I have too much respect for the craft of cooking”.

“Respect”, Bilbo repeated, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I like that. But let me tell you, the savoury ones are perfect as they are, but the sweet pancakes could use a little something extra”.  

She pushed her chair back and went to the pantry, standing on tiptoe to peer up at the high shelves. She frowned. “Blast it. Why do I even keep things up there?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Thorin, would you help me?”  

Thorin rose immediately, her towering frame making the reach to the top shelf effortless. She handed Bilbo a jar of deep blue marmalade, the label smudged but still legible. “Blueberry?”  

“Perfect”. Bilbo brought it to the table and unscrewed the lid, the sweet aroma wafting out. She spread a dollop over her pancake and took a bite, closing her eyes as the tangy sweetness mixed with the savory cheese. “Mmm. Yes, this is the way. Here, try”.  

Thorin hesitated before spreading a thin layer onto her own sweet pancake. She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before nodding in concession. “You’re right. It’s good”. She paused. “Better, much better. I might spread the word among my folk about this… innovation”.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the warmth of the kitchen and the shared meal easing away the memory of their earlier argument. Bilbo poured them both a second cup of tea and asked casually, “So, what kept you in the forge so late yesterday? I didn’t hear you come in”.

Thorin looked up from her plate, her expression shifting to sheepishness. “I was working on something special”. She hesitated, as if unsure how it would be received, then continued, “I was forging ice skates”.  

Bilbo froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Ice skates?”  

“For the pond”, Thorin explained, a touch of excitement creeping into her tone. “I thought it might be fun to teach you. I made a pair for myself and a pair for you”.

Bilbo set her fork down, folding her arms. “Thorin, there is no way I’m strapping sharp ice spikes to my feet and trying to balance on frozen water. I’ll break my neck”.

Thorin leaned forward, her earnestness almost childlike. “Just try. I’ll hold your hand the whole time, I swear it. It’s easier than it sounds, I promise”.

Bilbo pursed her lips, torn between her desire to do anything, holding Thorin’s hands, and her fear of frozen water and metal skates. Finally, she sighed. “Fine. At least, I’ll go down to the pond with you and see you skate. But only if you promise to wear something warmer than this padded cotton clothes you're using. I’ve been working on some clothes for you, and I won’t have you freezing out there”.

Thorin’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t seem offended, as Bilbo had feared. “Clothes?”  

Bilbo stood and disappeared into the adjoining room, returning moments later with a big handmade turtleneck sweater, a pair of wool trousers and a sleeveless overvest. “I used some old garments I had in storage”, she said quickly, holding them out. “The pants were my father’s, but I lengthened them with a similar fabric from an old skirt. And this other outer garment, similar to the ones you use, is from one of my mother’s wool dresses. I thought… well, I hope… you wouldn’t mind wearing old repurposed clothing”.  

Thorin took the garments from her, running her calloused fingers over the neat stitching and careful patchwork. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. “You made these for me?”  

Bilbo nodded, her cheeks pink. “It’s nothing fancy, but they should keep you warm”.

“They will”, Thorin said, her voice quiet and weirdly formal. “Thank you for your craft”.

Bilbo cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, try them on then while I go dress up for this mad adventure. And remember, if I break an ankle on that pond, it’ll be entirely your fault”.  

Thorin’s laughter rumbled warmly through the kitchen, and for the first time that morning, Bilbo felt a little less unsure of herself.

Chapter Text

When Thorin emerged from Bilbo’s room wearing the newly tailored clothes, Bilbo’s breath hitched. The trousers fit snugly, hugging Thorin’s muscular thighs and calves, the different coloured patches barely noticeable. The sleeveless vest, though a bit snug at the shoulders and bust (as Bilbo hadn’t made calculations for the sweater underneath), flared slightly at the hips, a remnant of its former life as a dress. Despite the makeshift nature of the ensemble, Thorin carried herself with such natural poise and dignity that Bilbo couldn’t help but stare.  

“Well?” Thorin asked, spreading her arms and lifting her brows. “Do I look like a proper hobbit now?”  

Bilbo blinked and swallowed hard. “I…uh… I suppose you look… warm”, she managed, flustered by her own reaction. “That’s what matters, doesn’t it?”  

Thorin huffed, adjusting the vest. “Warm, yes. And a bit snug, but I’ll manage. You’ve done well, Bilbo. I appreciate the care you’ve taken”.  

Bilbo waved off the compliment, busying herself with finding her hat, scarf and mittens, back turned to hide her blush. “Well, no sense standing around now we’re both outfitted. Let’s see how long it takes you to get me to break a leg”.  

After putting their winter coats on, they made their way to the pond, the cold air biting at their faces but invigorating all the same. The midday sun hung low in the sky, casting a pale golden light over the snow-covered landscape. The pond gleamed, its frozen surface catching the sunlight in shimmering patterns, like fractured glass.  

When they reached the edge of the ice, Thorin knelt to adjust her skates, sturdy contraptions of polished metal blades affixed to thick leather straps. Bilbo marveled at the craftsmanship, the blades catching the sunlight like a sword would.  

Thorin stood and stepped onto the ice with ease, her skates gliding over the frozen surface. She moved cautiously at first, her movements slow and controlled, as if testing the ice. Then, with a graceful push, she glided forward, picking up speed.  

Bilbo watched, mesmerized, as the dwarf moved across the ice. Thorin’s strong legs, whose muscles were clearly visible with the snugger trousers, propelled her with smooth, confident strides, her arms occasionally spreading for balance. The sun caught in the white strands of her raven black hair, turning them into a halo of sorts around her head. Her breath came in visible puffs, and her cheeks soon pinked with the strain and the cold. 

After reaching the far end of the pond, Thorin turned in a wide arc, leaning slightly to one side, her body graceful despite its broad strength. She came to a stop before Bilbo’s awed face with a flourish, the blades scraping softly against the ice. “See?” she said. “Not so dangerous if you know what you’re doing”. 

Bilbo crossed her arms, skeptical but impressed. “You make it look easy”.

“It is, once you get the hang of it”, Thorin said, gliding back toward her. “I made sure yesterday: the ice is strong and thick. Very safe. Perfect for skating”.  

Bilbo shook her head. “I don’t know, Thorin. It still seems like madness to me. Look at you, sliding around with knives on your feet!”  

“They’re not knives“, Thorin said with a laugh, coming to a stop at the edge of the ice and keeping the balance on one feet to lift the other one and tap the blade of her skate. “They’re tools, not weapons. It’s no different from using a well-made hammer or chisel“.  

Bilbo snorted. “Except you don’t strap hammers to your feet and go careening about“.  

Thorin extended a hand, her big blue eyes twinkling. “Come on, Bilbo. Just one try. I’ll hold you the entire time“.  

Bilbo hesitated, eyeing the blades on her skates. They looked sharp like kitchen knives, no matter how much Thorin had insisted they were blunt. “I still say this is madness. And… how am I supposed to wear these contraptions without shoes, anyway?”  

The dwarf smiled knowingly and reached into the satchel she had brought along. “I thought of that. These skates are designed to be worn over boots, yes, but since hobbits have their own… preferences, I’ve brought a second pair of wool socks. Extra thick“.  

Bilbo wrinkled her nose. “Socks? On my feet? No, absolutely not. My feet are fine as they are. It’s the one advantage of being a hobbit, you know, never having to wear them”.

“They’ll protect you from the straps rubbing too much“, Thorin reasoned, holding up the thick, cable-knit socks.  

“I won’t need them”. 

“Yes, you will”.

“I will not!”  

Thorin sighed, her patience as steady as her gaze. “Do you trust me, Bilbo?”  

That stopped the hobbit. Her defiance melted, and after a moment’s pause, she crossed her arms and muttered, “Fine. But just this once. You’re lucky there’s no one around”.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin knelt down right there on the ice, the movement as effortless as if she were standing on solid ground. The dwarf reached for Bilbo’s feet, her hands pausing briefly as though seeking permission. Bilbo gave a tight nod, her cheeks burning in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.  

Touching feet was an intimate thing for hobbits, something reserved for family or the closest of companions. And yet, as Thorin’s large, calloused hands cradled her foot and slipped the sock on with care, Bilbo didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned slightly forward, entranced by the feeling of Thorin’s hands enveloping her toes with a surprising tenderness.  

“They are… warm“, Thorin said quietly, her voice almost reverent.  

“Well, I’d hope so”, Bilbo replied, trying to sound nonchalant but failing to suppress a smile.  

The socks were snug on her feet (the only body part she had bigger than Thorin), but comfortable, and once they were on, Thorin carefully fastened the skates. Bilbo watched the dwarf’s deft fingers moving around her feet, her thumb and index finger holding her ankle in place as she strapped the leather, and had to close her eyes and bite her lips to contain her arousal.

“There”, Thorin said, standing up effortlessly on the ice and offering her hand. “Ready?”  

“Not remotely”, Bilbo muttered, but she took the offered hand anyway, finding it reassuring as Thorin led her onto the ice.  

The first step was nerve-wracking, her feet slipping and sliding unpredictably, but Thorin’s steady grip never wavered. “Start slow”, the dwarf coached, positioning herself beside Bilbo. “It’s not about speed; it’s about finding balance. Push one foot forward gently, then the other”. 

Bilbo followed Thorin’s example, her steps clumsy at first, like a newborn foal. The ice felt impossibly slippery and frail beneath her, and she gripped the dwarf’s hand tighter than she meant to.  

“Easy”, Thorin murmured, guiding her in a slow glide across the surface. “You’re doing fine”.

With each careful step, Bilbo grew more accustomed to the movement. The feeling of the ice beneath her feet, the cool air against her face, and Thorin’s hand in hers invigorated her.

“There now”, Thorin said after a few minutes, her voice full of encouragement. “Try letting go for a moment”.  

Bilbo frowned but released her grip hesitantly, her arms flailing for balance. She managed a few wobbly glides on her own.  

“Look at you!” Thorin called, clapping her hands together. “You’re a natural!”  

“Don’t get ahead of yourself”, Bilbo huffed, but her grin betrayed her pride.  

As she grew bolder, she attempted a small twirl, her feet instinctively finding their place beneath her. The movement was awkward but thrilling, and she burst into laughter, the sound echoing across the frozen pond.  

Thorin skated closer, her blue eyes sparkling with delight. “See? Not so dangerous after all”.  

“I wouldn’t say that”, Bilbo replied, catching her breath, “but I’ll admit it’s not entirely horrible”.  

They glided together, hand in hand once more, their movements growing more fluid with each turn around the pond. Bilbo had begun to feel almost graceful, their steps syncing in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing.  

“It’s like dancing”, Bilbo murmured, glancing up at the dwarf. 

Thorin’s thin lips curved under her moustache. “It is. Though I imagine you’re a much better dancer than I am. I could never follow the proper steps”.

Bilbo scoffed. “Hardly. Hobbits don’t take to formal dances with proper steps and all that, but they do like dancing freely… like this”. She twirled again, her confidence soaring as Thorin steadied her on the return. 

Their momentum slowed, and suddenly, they were standing very close. Bilbo’s breath caught as she looked up at Thorin’s face, framed by her dark braids and the soft fringe of her dark blue hat. Her lighter blue eyes were vibrant against the snowy backdrop, and there was an unspoken question in their depths.  

Bilbo felt her cheeks flush as Thorin leaned in ever so slightly, her head tilting as though drawn by an invisible thread. For a moment, the world around them seemed to hold its breath. Bilbo’s heart pounded, excitement and uncertainty coursing through her.  

Then, just as their faces were mere inches apart, a high-pitched laugh echoed from the riverbank.  

“Look, Mama! It’s Mrs. Baggins and her dwarf!”  

Bilbo flinched, instinctively ducking back to put space between them. She glanced toward the bank, where a group of hobbit children had gathered, their mothers standing close by.  

“Fauntlings! They’d be queuing to get some skates for them tomorrow”, she said with forced nonchalance, her voice a touch too loud. In her haste to appear casual as she put some distance between their bodies, her footing slipped, and she felt her ankle twisting sharply as she stumbled to regain balance. A sharp pain shot up her leg, and she let out a gasp, dropping to the ice.  

“Bilbo!” Thorin was at her side in an instant, her strong hands steading her. “What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”  

“It’s nothing”, Bilbo lied, wincing as she tried to move her foot. “Just lost my footing”.  

“Let me see“. Thorin knelt beside her,  her hands firm but gentle as she lowered the socks a bit to examine the injured ankle. Bilbo bit her lip, trying not to focus on the heat of the dwarf’s touch or the way her heart still raced from moments ago.  

“You’ve sprained it”, Thorin determined, her brow furrowed with concern. “We need to get you back to Bag End”.

“I can manage”, Bilbo protested, trying to get up on her own, though her face betrayed the pain she was in, even if she bit her lips to prevent any sound from spilling.  

“Don’t be stubborn”. Thorin stood, her hands sliding under Bilbo’s back and knees to scoop her as effortlessly as a babe. Before Bilbo could protest further, the dwarf carried her toward the bank as if she weighed nothing at all.  

The children and their mothers watched with wide eyes, curiosity and amusement playing across their faces. Bilbo buried her face in her scarf, hoping the blush spreading across her cheeks wasn’t too obvious.  

“Show’s over, little ones”, Thorin said, her tone good-natured but firm. “Run along now”.

The children giggled and scampered off, leaving the two women alone again as Thorin carefully set Bilbo down on a snow-covered bench near the edge of the pond.  

“I’ll take those skates off“, Thorin said, crouching to unfasten the straps of her own skates before doing the same with Bilbo’s, and putting both pairs in her satchel. “And then I’ll carry you home. No arguments“.  

Bilbo sighed, resigned but secretly thrilled by the dwarf’s concern and her plan. Even with the pain, Bilbo thought ice-skating hadn’t been that bad an idea. It had brought them closer.