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Chapter Text

I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.

The more Bilbo recalls his encounter with the wizard yesterday morning and that singular sentiment he put forth, the more humorous it all becomes. He was going on an adventure, and he thought to persuade a hobbit to join him, no hobbit in fact but Bilbo Baggins of Bag End? What foolishness! What nonsense! And yet, the memory follows him around the smial as he carries on with his preparations.

An adventure is even more unthinkable than usual on this particular day- Aunt Flora’s birthday luncheon comes but once a year, and it is Bilbo’s turn to host it. The past few days have been dedicated mostly to food preparation, with any spare moment devoted to cleaning Bag End from top to bottom. No, Bilbo has been far too busy with this most properly hobbit-ish of adventures to contemplate any others.

He's barely readied the first course of food, that being hot tea and dainty sandwiches of minced hard-boiled eggs, sliced pickles, and chicken poached in wine and herbs, when a knock comes at the door. “Early, early, of course they are early,” he grumbles as he abandons the artful arrangement of sandwiches on a platter and goes to answer the knock, which comes again, louder and heavier, even as he approaches. He reaches the door and pulls it open, saying, “Eager, are we? Welcome to Bag End, Auntieee…”

He finds no venerable hobittess on the doorstep. Quite instead, there is a rather hulking dwarf with twin axes on his back and tattoos on his scalp, and piercing eyes instantly fixing on Bilbo like a wolf’s on a lone fawn. “I suppose eager is the word for it,” the dwarf responds in an accented voice of rumbling gravel. Then he’s moving forward, pushing through the door as if he was expected. “Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service,” he tosses over a burly shoulder.

The terse introduction manages to snap Bilbo from his shocked stupor. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours!” he all but yelps before flinging the door shut and hurrying after the dwarf. “Um, I don’t think- that is to say, it seems that- or, I mean, perhaps you might be-”

“Famished from days of hard travel? Aye. Got any food?”

Bilbo thinks of the birthday luncheon feast hot and ready in his kitchen and feels a surge of almost paternal protectiveness. “I… am… certain I can prepare a little something for you. But you might be more comfortable at an inn, don’t you think? The Green Dragon is-”

Dwalin rounds on him with a fearsome squint. “Is this not our Company’s chosen meeting place, Mister Baggins? That’s what your door says.”

“My door…?”

Before Bilbo can puzzle through that mysterious statement, the bell of said door chimes through the smial and a cold panic washes through him. That must be his guests. Perfectly punctual, perfectly unaware of the scandal they’re about to walk into. A rough and rude dwarf within the stately walls of Bag End? It’s not to be contemplated, the shame of it, the utter humiliation. Aunt Flora’s heart could very well give out at the shock.

“Oh no. Uh, Mister Dwalin, was it? Look, listen, we haven’t much time…”

The dwarf’s squint becomes a scowl and a meaty hand reaches back for an axe. “What’s the trouble?”

Horror at imagining what even one of those axes might be capable of sends Bilbo jolting forward. “Nothing! Nothing! Nothing at all!” he cries while somehow finding the temerity to grasp Dwalin’s arms and guide him down a hallway, “However, your arrival coincides with a family event, the birthday of my very dear, very frail, very elderly aunt, you see, who cannot bear excitement. If you could do me the immense kindness of staying out of sight for just a little while, I promise on my honor as a Baggins to see to all of your needs, whatever they may be.”

They’ve reached the wing of the smial that contains three guest bedrooms and Bilbo’s own. He bustles Dwalin through the nearest door just as the bell rings again, causing him to cringe deeply and Dwalin to raise an eyebrow, then release a gusty sigh. “I knew we should’ve come yesterday. The wizard ought to’ve asked if you were busy today.”

The wizard! Bilbo nearly chokes with outrage. This has something to do with that ridiculous notion of an adventure! “Yes, yes, indeed he ought to. But he didn’t so, please, take your rest here, quietly, and I’ll fetch you when it’s safe- ah, that is, when it is more convenient for us to discuss this… business the wizard has in mind.”

Dwalin grunts. “Very well. Could use a nap.”

Bilbo sags against the door frame with relief. “Oh, thank you most kindly, my good dwarf. Yes, I’ll bid you a pleasant rest, and, ah- yes.” He shuts the door as Dwalin mutters something about companions, and scurries back through the smial.

At the front door, he takes a breath, smooths down his vest and curls, remembers he has yet to fully arrange and set out the first course, decides there’s nothing to be done about that in this second, and opens it.

As he first expected, Aunt Flora stands squarely on the doorstep, flanked by her near-constant companions, Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins. I forgot to count the spoons, Bilbo recalls unhappily while pasting a smile on his face. “Hello, Lobelia, Otho. And Aunt Flora, welcome, and happy birthday.”

Her heavily-lined mouth purses in what might be a returned smile, it’s difficult to be sure. Baggins family lore has it that Aunt Flora is older than the Old Took. However, it would be unthinkable for a hobbittess, let alone a Baggins one, to discuss her age in public. What is known is that Aunt Flora’s late husband was several years younger than her when they married, and was just past a hundred when he died well over a decade ago, and so the Bagginses maintain a smug but unspoken certainty. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

“Do come in, and I’ll have tea and sandwiches for you all in a moment.” He pulls the door open wider and backs up to allow his guests to enter.

As Lobelia passes, her gaze lingers on something low and to the side. “Your door needs painting, Bilbo. Look how horribly it’s been scratched.”

“Indeed, Bilbo,” Otho chimes in, “I don’t know how you can bear to leave your door in such a state.”

Aunt Flora sniffs, “Hardly makes a good impression.”

“Not at all,” Lobelia agrees firmly, looping her arm with Aunt Flora’s as they step into the smial. “You boasted of tea and sandwiches, Bilbo, but I don’t see them. Are you quite prepared for our beloved aunt’s birthday luncheon?”

Consciously forcing his jaw not to clench, Bilbo replies, “I am prepared, Lobelia, I simply need to fetch them from the kitchen. If you’ll all be seated in the dining room, I will do so instantly.”

He wins a reprieve from any more sniping comments while his guests settle themselves and he goes to the kitchen to finally finish preparing the platter and removing the tea pot from its warming cozy. Platter and teapot in hand, he returns to the table.

“At last, I’m about to perish from hunger,” Otho declares, “Aren’t you, Auntie?”

“Where is Drogo?” she responds, causing all to pause. While Lobelia and Otho live nearest and are thus the most constant presences in her life, Bilbo thinks a remnant of the hobbittess Aunt Flora used to be recognizes the fine qualities in young Drogo which have led her to favor him among generations of nieces and nephews.

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” Bilbo replies while pouring tea, “You know how tweens can lose track of time.”

“Hm. Well, I prefer to do this now anyway. Otho, my bag.”

Otho has been carrying a large sack bag made of a richly patterned velvet of deep purple, red, and green. He passes it to Aunt Flora and she snaps open the clasp and begins rummaging within, soon coming up with a wrapped box.

“For you, Bilbo,” she says, offering it to him. Gifts for the Sackville-Bagginses are also fished out, and a final one is placed on Drogo’s empty seat.

Lobelia and Otho unwrap a cotton doll and a pouch of marbles, respectively, while Bilbo opens his box takes out a wooden toy cart drawn by an ox. For the briefest of moments, all three exchange glances as they wonder just how old Aunt Flora thinks they are, and if it would do a bit of good to ask.

“It’s lovely, Aunt Flora,” Bilbo is the first to manage, “Thank you very much.”

Lobelia and Otho emit wordless noises of gratitude, and they all earn an indulgent smile. “You’re very welcome, my dears. Now, we eat.”

Bilbo has just started distributing the sandwiches when a new knock on the door nearly sends the platter toppling from his hands.

“Oh, is it Drogo?” Aunt Flora says, “Bilbo, let him in.”

“Yes, Auntie.” He passes the platter to Otho, and goes to the door, his gift idly held in one hand. He finds no charming hobbit youth on the doorstep. Quite instead, there are no fewer than four dwarves this time, their hairy faces all creasing into smiles of varying levels of friendliness as Bilbo stares in gape-mouthed shock. By all that’s good and green, does that one have an axe head embedded in his skull?!

“The- ah, the wizard left his mark for us,” says the dwarf who wears a stained leather hat and the broadest smile. “I’m Bofur, at your service, and here with me is Bombur, Bifur, and Nori. You’re to be our burglar then?”  His bright gaze drifts down.  “Nice toy cart.”

Bilbo’s mouth only gapes further. Burglar? What sort of adventure is this?! “Drogo, is that you?” Aunt Flora’s call snaps Bilbo back to his senses. Hide them, hide them with Mister Dwalin. They can’t be seen!

Bilbo hurriedly flicks his free hand at the group, gesturing them inside as he mutters under his breath, “A-all that’s to be decided, now come in, but please be quiet. It’s my elderly aunt’s birthday luncheon today and she cannot abide excitement, so just come with me, quickly now.” As the dwarves shuffle in, he shouts back to the dining room, “It’s not Drogo, Auntie! It’s… It’s my gardener. He just, ah… has a few questions about the, um, the tomatoes! Won’t be a moment!”

“A gardener has questions about tomatoes?” he hears Lobelia inquire snidely, “Can’t be a very good one. Ours is much better.”

Silently begging forgiveness for the slight to Hamfast Gamgee’s expertise, Bilbo leads his duckling row of dwarves through the smial, wincing at every clomp and scuff of a boot as they go. He pulls open the door of the first guest bedroom and ushers all inside, up until the handsomely rotund Bombur stops short. “Ah, I’m afraid there’s little space left,” he says in what he likely believes is a gentle whisper. Bilbo sets his gift down on a chest of drawers within and peers around Bombur to determine, yes, a guest bedroom built for at most three hobbits cannot accommodate five dwarves. “Next room, next room,” he mutters, reaching for the second guest room’s door and yanking it open, “In you go, fine fellow.”

“Oh, uh, very well.”

“Many thanks.” He shuts the door on Bombur, and spares a glance at the new occupants of the first guest room. “Please, if you’ll exercise some patience, we will discuss all of your business soon enough, yes?” The dwarves nod, and Bilbo smiles and nods back his gratitude. As he pushes the door shut, he completely fails to see Dwalin’s eyes pop open and fix a blazing glare on Nori.

Chapter Text

Engaging all his hobbit-ish stealth, Bilbo scampers back to the front door, opening and shutting it with a great slam as he announces, “There! That’s taken care of! Now back to our luncheon!”

He returns to the table and makes no response to any and all raised Sackville-Baggins brows, dedicating himself to collecting his own portion of sandwiches and tea. Meanwhile, back in the first guestroom, Dwalin sits up from the bed and growls at Nori, “Cousin and king as Thorin is, every now and again, I’d say he’s the dumbest dwarf to ever live. Or the most gullible, at least.”

Nori responds with a nasty smirk while Bofur takes a cautious step between him and Dwalin. “Here now, lads, our host asked us to keep quiet,” he admonishes in a soft undertone, “Let’s hash this out when we’re back on the road, eh?”

“I’m not going anywhere with this rat-faced thief,” Dwalin retorts.

Nori’s smirk falls to a black glare. “Thorin gave me the contract and I signed it, so I’m just as much a part of this Company as you, Durin’s son. Like it or lump it.”

“I’ll give you a lump!” Dwalin lunges from the bed in Nori’s direction.

In the dining room, the first thud only goes unnoticed because there is one sandwich left, and Aunt Flora has already declined it, leaving Lobelia and Otho vying for it between themselves.

“Sweetheart, you know how eating too many pickles brings you out in an awful rash,” Lobelia simpers in faux concern.

There’s another soft thud in the distance, barely muffled by Otho’s retort, “But weren’t you only saying just yesterday how immensely you dislike pickles? Shall I rescue you from them, my lovely?”

Raised dwarven voices emanate through the wall while Lobelia corrects, “Only when served alone, as you may recall I said if you were in fact paying attention, turtledove. When used as a condiment I find them perfectly delightful.”

Otho’s eyebrows jump and he grins in vicious triumph. “Oh, so you are finding Cousin Bilbo’s sandwiches perfectly delightful then, are you, buttercup?”

The sharpened smile drops from Lobelia’s face as she realizes Otho has quite nearly trapped her into paying Bilbo a compliment.

Another thud resounds in the silence, this one loud enough for Aunt Flora to perk up. “What was that?”

Bilbo has been sitting perfectly still, observing all this while his heart tries to pound its way out of his chest. Said pounding simply stops at Aunt Flora’s innocent question, and Bilbo feels himself enter a kind of mental free-fall. In this empty space of total helplessness, something he will later name the merciful spirit of his Took mother takes control. He stands from the table, claps his hands, and declares, “I’ve been thinking, and I believe, on this very special day, we require a more special dessert than what I’d planned. Really, I think the only thing that will do on our auntie’s birthday is nothing less than Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle.”

From the guestroom comes another noise, but it’s more of a scuffing sound which is mostly drowned out by the gasps that arise from the table.

“Oh Bilbo,” Aunt Flora says, “You needn’t go to so much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, not for you. I will need to be away from the table rather more than I ought to be as host, but I’m sure all will be forgiven after your first bite of Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“It has been some years since you made it,” Aunt Flora says with a note of censure, “I suppose if you’re willing to put in all that work, I can hardly refuse.”

Lobelia’s mouth purses and twists before she says, “It is quite an elaborate dessert.” At Aunt Flora’s pointed look, her mouth spreads into a thin smile. “Which is why it would be perfect for our auntie’s birthday. Yes. Simply perfect.”

“Uh huh, perfect,” Otho offers with lust in his eyes for this most delectable of treats.

Bilbo beams, mostly because the guestroom seems to have gone silent, for now. “Excellent. You’ll excuse me then, so I might make a start on it. I’ll return with our next course as soon as I can. You lot just hold tight and get your taste buds ready for Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle!”

He darts from the dining room, through the kitchen, and down the hall to the first guestroom, flinging open the door to find Bofur and Bifur pinning Nori and Dwalin to the floor.

“Sorry, Mister Baggins,” Bofur whispers, his grip tight on the lower half of Nori’s face, “Won’t be any more trouble, promise.”

Dwalin lets out a low growl, to which Bifur responds by pressing down hard on his head. “Aye, fine, no trouble,” he says through the side of his mouth not squashed into the floorboards.

Bilbo’s gaze darts from dwarf to dwarf, but in the end he can only mutter, “Right. Good.” He tries to glare as ferociously as he can, as it’s the closest he’ll get to any sort of punishment.

He’s on his way back to the kitchen, recalling the ingredients list of Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle and praying he has them all, when the doorbell rings and his stomach drops.

“Drogo? Is that Drogo?” Aunt Flora immediately calls.

Dread mounting within, Bilbo approaches the door and reaches for the knob, all while running a litany in his head- Not more dwarves. Please. Please not more dwarves. Anything but more dwarves. He’s wincing so hard his eyes are actually shut, and so he only hears Drogo’s bright voice sing out, “Hallo, Bilbo! Sorry I’m late, hope you left some food for me, but I’ll understand if it’s all gone. Anyway, look who I found in the road!”

Bilbo’s eyes pop open to see Drogo, and a column of tattered gray fabric beside him. The column bends, revealing the source of the majority of Bilbo’s current tribulations. “Hello again,” Gandalf says, “Might we come in?”

No, no, no, absolutely not, you awful meddler, Bilbo does not answer. Instead, through gritted teeth, he replies, “Of course. Drogo, so glad you made it. Gandalf, so nice to see you. Do come in.”

In they come, and Bilbo leads them to the dining room, his limbs tingling with suppressed outrage. Drogo comes to Aunt Flora’s side for a one-armed hug, and a kiss dropped on her cheek. “Happy birthday, Auntie. Please forgive my tardiness.”

She waves an indulgent hand and he skips off to his seat. She then peers up, and up, all the way to Gandalf’s face, and says, “I haven’t got a present for you.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo has the recipe for Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle written down somewhere, but he doesn’t need it. The steps and ingredients were engraved in his brain as he made it again and again, finding comfort only in its decadent sweetness after his mother’s death left him alone in Bag End.

He recalls a number of subtle, and not very subtle even a little bit at all, suggestions from relatives, friends, and acquaintances that he should bring someone home to make it for him. The weight of expectation pressed on Bilbo’s shoulders more heavily every day, and yet it never quite drove him to go out and find that someone. There remained something unsettled in his heart, something that shied away from his fellow hobbits. He has more or less believed that eventually the right someone would come along and settle that unsettled something, but now comfortably in his middle age, he doesn’t entertain the whimsical notion often. It’s just as well. He knows he’s a sarcastic fusspot at heart, often losing days to pointless studies of foreign lands and epic histories. No, aside from his luxurious smial, he hasn’t much to offer anyone. And anyone who was just after the smial, he wouldn’t make the offer to.

But he has more important things to worry about, namely making his excuses to retreat to the kitchen and start putting together both the next course and Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle.

The coals are stirred to reheat mince and pork pies, leafy salads are fluffed in their bowls, a half-wheel of sharp cheddar cheese is arranged attractively with a cheese knife on a wooden board, a bottle of red wine is opened to breathe. Then, a saucepan is placed on the range, six small glass bowls are set on a baking sheet, and four egg whites are smoothly separated from their yolks into a larger bowl. Once the pies are warm he delivers the next course to the table where Lobelia is holding court.

“… Pink is always in fashion, of course, but I told my seamstress I simply must have burnt orange for midsummer this year. She took some convincing, but she saw things my way eventually...”

As usual, nothing worth listening to, Bilbo quickly decides and goes back to the kitchen where he picks up the bowl of egg whites and a whisk. As he swiftly beats them with a practiced hand, he wanders down the other hall to check on his unexpected guests. In the first bedroom Nori and Dwalin are sitting in opposite corners clearly pretending the other doesn’t exist. Bofur and Bifur look up from where their heads are bent together in some deep discussion, giving Bilbo two mostly pleasant smiles. Bilbo gives his own and leaves, without noticing that his gift from Aunt Flora, that ox-drawn cart toy, is no longer atop the chest of drawers by the door where he left it.

A quick glance shows Bombur dozing in the second guestroom, and so Bilbo dares to leave the dwarves on their own and return to the kitchen. The egg whites are approaching a glossy, smooth appearance, which calls for cream of tartar to be added. He also greases the small bowls on the baking sheet with butter and coats the inside surfaces with sugar. More sugar goes into the saucepan and he sets himself to a hawk-like watch, giving the pan a swirl every so often as the granules melt.

Familiar as he is with the preparation of Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle, that doesn’t mean he can afford to be careless. He maintains his focus on the melting sugar, even as a new sound drifts at the edges of his awareness. Well, not a new sound. A very familiar one, in fact- something like the tweeting of a songbird. However, Bilbo has never brought a songbird into Bag End before. And if he had, he wouldn’t have put it in a guestroom.

His toes twitch, demanding he go find out what those confusticated dwarves are up to now, but he can’t. Not yet. There still remain a few stubborn clumps of sugar that have yet to release into the liquid mass.

Tweet-tweet. It’s a two-toned trill, coming a few seconds apart, then stopping for a moment before starting again. It is a fairly convincing bird call, and Bilbo can only pray that’s what his luncheon guests take it for. Another clump slowly releases…

As a fresh tweet-tweet rings through the air, Bilbo squashes the last clump with a spoon, whips the pan off the heat, pours in a measure of cream to combine into a rich caramel, and hears Aunt Flora call, “Bilbo, has a bird got in? What is that sound?”

Curse all dwarves to hairless feet! Or make that chins, Bilbo silently rages as he strides to the dining room and cheerfully says, “You didn’t know, Auntie? I do believe a new bird has come to the Shire. There must be one perched right on the Hill above our heads. Let me see if I can spot it for you.”

Under Lobelia’s suspicious squint, he spins on a heel and goes to the front door and pulls it open. He finds no pretty songbird on the doorstep, or the Hill, or anywhere, not that he expected to. Quite instead, there are three more dwarves, one with a large fist poised to give the door what surely would have been a loud knock. This dwarf, possessed of a collection of elaborate silver braids encircling his face, gives the horrified Bilbo a friendly smile. “Oh! Good day. I am Dori, son of Vuori, at your service. Do I have the honor of addressing the newest member of our Company?”

The dwarf furthest back, bearing a heavy brow beneath a helmet of iron gray hair, lets out an explosive sneeze. The one in between, younger with a bowl-shaped cap of auburn hair and sparse wisps of a beard, sets comforting hands clad in knit gloves on the sneezer’s rounded shoulders. “Oin here woke up with a cold this morning,” he says, “Anyway, I’m Ori, Dori’s brother, at your service.”

Through his cloud of horror, Bilbo spies a ray of hope. There’s still space. The second guestroom, get them there, now. “Right. Mister- Dori, Bilbo Baggins, at your service… and, well, there are matters to discuss and I cannot discuss them at this very moment because I am currently in the middle of my elderly aunt’s birthday luncheon and so I need you three to come with me as quietly as possible if you’ll be so kind right this way thank you very much, she needs quiet, no excitement, so yes come along this way hurry yes very good quietly now yes thank you please do be as quiet as you can…”

His mindless stream of murmured chatter stops when he runs out of breath, and he doesn’t dare inhale until Dori, Ori, and Oin are bustled into the second guestroom with Bombur. Once the door is closed he pulls open the first guestroom’s door to see Bofur and Bifur pushing the toy cart along the floor. As the wheels turn, a mechanism it certainly didn’t possess before sets off a whistle on top to emit a bright tweet-tweet.

“Like it?” Bofur asks, “See, we’re toymake-”

“I asked for quiet, why do you think putting a noisemaker on a toy would be an exception?” Bilbo demands in a furious whisper. The smiling faces of both dwarves fall and Bilbo thrusts aside a surge of guilt and presses on, “Please. Be. Quiet. No brawling. And no toy… improving. Thank you.”

He dashes back to the front door and leans out of it, squinting up into the sunny blue sky. “Hm, hm, no, I don’t see it, Auntie. Must’ve just flitted away, so sorry…”

“That’s fine, dear,” she calls back, “I’m sure I’ll see it later. Come join us, if you could possibly spare the time.”

Bilbo flinches at Lobelia’s derisive snort and mentally runs through the remaining steps for Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle, determining that he can indeed sit for a moment. On his way to the table, he shoots a fiery glare in Gandalf’s direction. The wizard simply sips his wine and gives him a twinkle-eyed grin. “Shall I pour you some, Bilbo? This is a very fine vintage.”

“Definitely,” Bilbo growls, snatching up a glass and holding it out for a generous measure of wine before helping himself to a heaping plate of food. Goodness knows he needs both kinds of fortification.

In the second guestroom, Ori yanks a pillow from under Bombur to shove into Oin’s face, muffling his latest sneeze as well as startling the dozing dwarf awake.

When he’s blinked the sleep from his eyes, Bombur says, “Oh, hello, you lot. Finally caught up, eh?”

“Greetings, Bombur,” Dori replies, “Master Oin is ill. If you’ll please allow him use of the bed?”

“Right, of course.” Bombur swiftly levers himself up with a frown of concern.

Ori guides Oin to the bed, not that he needs much encouragement to tip his heavy frame onto it with a groaning sigh, which is met by a much louder three-part harmony of shushing.

“That’s not good,” Bombur remarks, his gaze on Oin who has descended into a coughing fit. Ori hovers with the pillow, trying to at least redirect the sound if not muffle it. “Can’t start a quest with our healer ill.”

“Indeed not,” Dori says, “But if he can get a good night’s rest, I’m sure he’ll be well enough when we set off in the morning.”

“Or he might not, and we’ll have to tarry here even longer than we already have,” Bombur counters.

“That’s possible, but it’s not as if we have the means to aid him.”

Bombur raises an eyebrow. “Sure of that, are you? If I could get into the kitchen, I’d whip up something that would have old Oin back on his feet in no time. If you haven’t got a healer, find yourself a cook, that’s what I always say.”

“Preposterous,” Dori scoffs, “Good rest, that’s all he needs.”

“He can rest when he’s dead, we need him hale and hearty now. The mountain won’t wait forever. Ori, hey, write this down-”

Dori inserts himself between his two companions, loftily declaring, “Do not involve my brother in this, thank you kindly.”

“He’s small, he can sneak out and-”

“He’ll do nothing of the sort. If you-”

“- Won’t take a minute-”

“- sort of behavior is-”

“- it’s better than-”

“AH-CHOOO!” Oin lowers himself back onto the bed with another miserable groan. Silence but for his labored breathing lies thick in the room. When no enraged hobbits stomp down the hall, Bombur, Ori, and Dori dare to relax slightly.

“What do we need, Bombur?” Ori asks. “I’ll see to it.”

“Right, lad, get out some paper and charcoal.”

Chapter Text

Back in the dining room Bilbo breathes an inward sigh of relief when his guests buy the colossal fib of a crow’s caw to explain away Oin’s sneeze. Deciding to leave on a victory, he excuses himself to continue preparing Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle as well as the now preliminary dessert course of the luncheon. He steps into the kitchen just as the young dwarf, Ori, walks in opposite from him, peering at a scrap of paper in his hand. Hobbit and dwarf stop short, Ori’s squinted eyes going wide and Bilbo’s narrowing.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he whispers fiercely.

“Tea,” Ori whispers back, “For Oin. Bombur said it’ll stop his coughing and sneezing. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Bilbo sighs, anger draining as rationality wins out. “Yes. I would. Here, is that a recipe?”

Ori passes him the scrap and Bilbo glances at it without quite absorbing the words as his gaze drifts to the in-progress Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle. Soon his hand drops and he bustles over, a soft whine escaping him as he sees how the caramel has stiffened with his neglect. He grabs a spoon and starts stirring it back into a properly silky texture while telling Ori, “The tea will have to wait, I’m afraid. This takes precedence.”

Ori ambles over and looks at the ingredients and equipment arrayed for the work ahead. “What is it?”

“It will be Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle.” Ori’s brow furrows as his lips move soundlessly around the clearly unfamiliar words. Bilbo blinks away the urge to roll his eyes and says, “I could use some help with it, in fact.”

Ori flinches back with alarm. “Help? Me? You? With this? I can’t, no- that is, because… The tea!”

“You can do both at the same time, it’s honestly not that difficult.” Bilbo sets aside the caramel and goes to his collection of cookbooks, mumbling over where he might have wrote the recipe down. It thankfully comes to hand quickly and he runs a finger part way down the lengthy list of steps before stopping and showing it to Ori. “Right, we’re about here, see? The caramel is done, and the meringue’s nearly there. You finish that up while I work on the souffle. It’s simple.”

“… Simple?”

Though the dwarf looks like he’s handling a venomous snake throughout, Bilbo manages to coax Ori into slowly mixing sugar into the meringue while he separates egg whites from yolks and brings a saucepan of milk to a simmer. The yolks receive flour and sugar and a fierce whisking before some of the simmering milk is poured over them to temper. More milk is added and the coals stirred to bring the mixture to a boil.

At this point, Ori is anxiously stirring a bowl of totally done meringue, so Bilbo takes it from his hands while saying, “I need to head back out there. Please stir this pot while I’m gone and see that it starts to thicken.”

Ori goes pale and his eyes dart between Bilbo and the stove. “But- I can’t- what about-?”

“Just look at the recipe here if you get confused and keep quiet and once I’m back, we’ll see what’s what,” Bilbo hurriedly answers, and leaves what seems to be a perfectly intelligent, capable dwarf alone to stir a single pot.

At the table, Gandalf is refilling everyone’s wine glasses. He is also refilling the wine bottle with a tiny twiddle of his fingers, Bilbo notices as he sits down. He permits a teaspoon of gratitude for the old meddler- his invited guests are less likely to notice his uninvited guests with their senses dulled by drink.

“I say, Bilbo, how are things coming along in there?” Otho asks, almost convivially. He never could hold his wine.

“Quite well, Otho, thank you for asking. It won’t be long now, promise.”

He grins widely with anticipation and sits back in his chair. “Good, good. Wonderful dish, that Belladonna’s Took’s Caramel… Souffle…”

“Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle, sweetling,” Lobelia corrects her husband while sliding his wine glass out of reach. “It is an excellent dessert, truly.  Though, if I recall, it's about the only notable bit of cooking our dear Belladonna ever did.  But then she was never very interested in kitchen-work, was she, Bilbo?  Too busy haring off on her ridiculous adventures. But it is a fine dessert, it must be said.  Very fine.”

Otho nods emphatically. “Oh yes, she put in some effort there.  Probably the only reason she caught old Uncle Bungo's eye at all, eh, Bilbo?” He chortles nastily and continues, “Can’t imagine what else might have drawn a Baggins to a Took. Well, I suppose there was the money to consider…”

“Otho, don’t be vulgar,” Aunt Flora says around her own smirk. “In any case, at least our Bilbo isn't so susceptible to his mother's Took-ish fancies.  Indeed, no one but a Took could have come up with such an- imaginative dessert.  But it is quite good.  Quite good.”

Drogo stares at his lap, looking ill.  Gandalf seems to have converted his body to stone.  Rage and shame bring such heat to Bilbo's ears he thinks his curls might catch fire.  His mother quickly grew skilled at enduring the barely veiled insults of various Bagginses with a smile.  He can hear her gentle voice in his head even now- They’re in their cups, sweetpea, they’ll be perfectly mortified to recall what they said once they’ve sobered up.

Her son, on the other hand, shoves his chair away from the table while muttering something about checking the stove. He strides past the kitchen, ignoring whatever Ori starts to say, and goes right out of the smial entirely.

Chapter Text

Perhaps Bilbo might have marched right down Bagshot Row, and out of Hobbiton, and clear out of the Shire. But doing so would’ve meant running smack into a fresh batch of dwarves that have just let themselves in through the gate. It’s another group of four, and Bilbo’s rage leaves him in a gusty breath of horrified despair as the one at the front with the cotton fluff hair gives him a pleasant smile.

“Good day, master hobbit. I am Balin, son of Fundin, at your service.”

“Bilbo Baggins. At yours,” Bilbo replies numbly.

“Indeed. Perhaps you’ve met my brother, Dwalin. I believe he was traveling ahead of us. I do hope he’s not lost his way.”

Any budding idea that he might send these new interlopers down the road with an excuse of some kind dies a swift death. Bilbo does not want to learn how Dwalin would react to hearing that his brother received less than perfect hospitality. “Yes- ah, yes. Dwalin is here. As are… quite a lot of dwarves.”

Balin’s smile warms even further. “Good to hear our Company is assembled. We’ve several matters to discuss before we set off, you know.”

“I am aware. However, I’m also in the middle of a family occasion. My aunt’s birthday party. I would appreciate it if all of you would quietly come with me to a guestroom and we can conduct our business after she leaves. Is that acceptable?”

The smile creases into a look of understanding. “Oh, of course, laddie, Gloin, Fili, Kili, and I are so sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s- it’s quite all right,” Bilbo lies, “Just please, if you can, stay as quiet as possible. My aunt is elderly and cannot bear any excitement, you see.” He looks past Balin to the red-haired dwarf behind him, Gloin, and the two young dwarves at the back, Fili and Kili though he’s not sure which is which. There’s a mischievous gleam in the otherwise friendly smiles those last two give him that he doesn’t quite like. “Well, I suppose you should come in then. But please, do be quiet.”

To their credit, among the groups of dwarves Bilbo has impossibly found himself leading through Bag End today, this is the quietest. He settles them in the third guest bedroom and hurries off to the kitchen, in which he finds the pot abandoned and Ori staring at his scrap of paper.

“Why aren’t you stirring?” Bilbo demands in an undertone, hands clamped on his hips.

Ori flinches and goes wide-eyed for a second before seeming to steel himself. “It was thickened. Instructions said to set it aside to cool.”

“Perhaps, perhaps, but did you add the vanilla?”

“Of course. Instructions said that too, and you set it out right there.”

Bilbo’s mouth opens, then shuts. He goes to the pot and examines its contents, giving it a small stir of his own. It’s perfectly thickened. “I see. Well, good. Many thanks.”

“You said I could make the tea at the same time. Since that’s cooling, I thought…”

“Yes, you’re quite right. Let me see that paper.”

Ori hands it over and this time Bilbo actually reads it, and frowns deeper with every word. All together, this collection of herbs and spices is likely to stink worse than a ranger’s socks. But if it keeps Oin from sneezing and coughing up a storm…

“There’s nothing for it,” he says, mostly to himself, “I’ve got to get everyone outside while this concoction steeps. How in the world will I do that?”

Ori has no suggestions, just a kind of encouraging grimace stretched over his face.

Bilbo wracks his brain until the hint of an idea flutters to him. “The bird!”

“The bird?” Ori asks.

“Not a bird. Not a real bird. The bird that- the tweet-” Bilbo halts his useless explanation and barrels on, “No matter, you just focus on the tea. You should find everything you need on this spice rack. Just get out of sight when everyone comes to the door, understand?” At Ori’s nod, Bilbo dares to smile. “Good. You’ll have to excuse me now, I need to see a dwarf about a toy.”

He should put in another appearance at the table, but he can’t bear his relatives’ smirking faces and sharpened quips just yet. So he instead goes to the first guestroom and pushes open the door to reveal a furious war of whispers. Nori and Dwalin are face-to-face, with Bofur and Bifur holding them back. All four freeze and turn guilty looks in the direction of Bilbo, who simply rolls his eyes.

“You’re not brawling, and you’re being quiet. That’s all I asked,” he says, “But now, Mister Bofur, I need a favor.”

“Right you are.” Bofur lets go of Nori and Bifur immediately shoves himself between the two combatants, grumbling something in the dwarven language that has them trudging back to their respective corners. Bofur comes to the door and asks, “What d’you need?”

The ox and cart toy has been set back on the chest of drawers where Bilbo originally left it. He picks it up and hands it to Bofur. “Take this, find someplace outside where you won’t be seen, and make it tweet loudly.”

Bofur’s face lights with curiosity. “Right, you know, I could make a little adjustment here, here, and here, and then it’d really sing.”

“Excellent. Off you go, then. And remember, do not let yourself be seen, by anyone.”

“I’ll be a shadow in the night, Mister Baggins, you have my word.” Bofur proceeds to tromp along the hall and Bilbo cringes until he’s gone, praying his guests are too drunk at this point to notice. Then he stuffs down his pride and goes back to the dining room to endure more time with his family.

Chapter Text

In the third guestroom, Gloin is already slumbering on the bed. Balin has commandeered a small desk where he unfurls the burglar’s contract and peruses it through half-moon spectacles. “Yes, yes, cash on delivery… traveling expenses guaranteed, hm… funeral expenses defrayed by us or our representatives, good, good…”

Fili and Kili stand idly by, a dreadful boredom swiftly taking hold. They’ve been instructed an uncountable number of times in their young lives to stay in a room and keep quiet. They hardly intend to start obeying now. While Gloin sinks into his nap and Balin studies the contract, the brothers sidle over to the door and ease it open. They flinch back as they hear many footsteps heading down a distant hallway, over which Bilbo Baggins frantically declares, “I’m so glad it came back! Singing to celebrate our auntie’s birthday no doubt! Let’s go find it! Come along, come along!”

The hobbit hole’s front door opens and shuts, leaving silence behind. Fili and Kili exchange grins and dart out of the guestroom and down the hall. They pause at the kitchen and spot Ori climbing out from where he was hiding under the table. His worried gaze is on a pot in the range and considering the stench wafting from the pot, he’s right to be worried. Now, sometimes Ori can be trusted not to squawk when Fili and Kili are having some fun, but not always. The brothers exchange a glance, and Fili jerks his head sharply in the direction of the hall beyond the kitchen. Kili nods, and the pair race through as quick as they can, leaving Ori no time to do more than stutter twice before being left behind.

They make it to the dining room and find the last remnants of a meal on the table. Those last remnants quickly go into their bellies, though they leave the nasty bits of green leaves. They also refrain from stealing the whole remainder of the cheese wheel, only taking one generous slice each.

“Right, what now, then?” Kili asks through a spray of pie crumbs.

“Well, it’ll be no fun just wandering about the house, will it?” Fili replies. Kili shakes his head and the two of them gaze around in search of inspiration. Their gazes soon fall to the table again, and they grin in tandem. No words are needed- they follow Ori’s brilliant example and climb underneath, already giggling.

Out in the garden, Bilbo and his guests stare into the bright blue sky. A tweet-tweet floats over the Hill, and Bilbo leaps to say, “There! I just saw it!”

He scampers up the turf above Bag End where Bofur crouches with the toy.

“Oh drat!” Bilbo cries to his guests while Bofur climbs down the opposite side of the Hill, “Nothing here. Drogo, did you see where it flew?”

“I must have missed it, Bilbo,” he replies from down in the garden, “Quick little beast, isn’t it?”

“It must be somewhere,” Lobelia says with a greedy gleam in her eye as she stalks the perimeter. All it took was the mild suggestion that the new bird’s plumage might look nice adorning one of her bonnets to get her up and out of the smial. Keeping her here will be the tough part, but so far Bofur is doing a wonderful job sneaking about the immediate area and rolling the toy across the grass.

From his seat on the garden bench, Gandalf points a finger vaguely forward. “I might have seen it flit that way.”

Bilbo’s almost certain the wizard is perfectly aware of the whole charade, but he still shades his eyes with his hand and makes a show of scanning the horizon. He, of course, sees nothing out of the ordinary. Though he does spot someone walking down Bagshot Row. They hold his attention, somehow. As they come closer, he notices how broad they are, how tall. Long hair too. Oh no.

A tweet-tweet comes from a neighbor’s back garden, leading the hobbits on another fictitious bird-chase while Bilbo keeps glancing over at the road, waiting to see if the person comes closer.

“Is this bird invisible or something?” Otho whines, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

“It must be,” Aunt Flora responds, “Let’s go back in. It’s time for dessert, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Gandalf says, “I’m for dessert, if no one else is.”

Bilbo quickly calculates how much stink one cup of medicinal tea might make and how long it would take to disperse. In the end, he must concede that Aunt Flora gets what Aunt Flora wants, and so starts herding his guests back to the front door of Bag End. “Too bad we didn’t spot it,” he adds to the disappointed murmurs, “Too bad…”

He again glances over at the road. The person is there, striding closer. Very tall, very broad. Bearded. Not another. Not yet another dwarf!

“I’ll… I’ll be in shortly,” he hears himself saying, “Just a few… weeds to pull.”

Lobelia makes some remark about his untended garden, but he’s not listening as he shuts the door and walks down to the gate and rests his hands atop it, mind scrambling for some tale to spin that will send this thirteenth dwarf away.

Nothing occurs as he approaches. His blue eyes catch Bilbo’s and hold them, and the rising panic within him vanishes. There are plenty of blue-eyed folk in the Shire, but somehow, these eyes are different. The way they look at him- it shouldn’t be possible. But then, this has been a highly impossible day. Why shouldn’t he look into the eyes of a perfect stranger and feel known?

The dwarf stops on the opposite side of the gate, and his hands rise up and cover Bilbo’s like two warm, calloused blankets. “I am Thorin, called Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” he says in a voice like the gentlest thunder, “I am at your service.”

“Bilbo Baggins. A-at yours. Your service.” He would be. He wants to be. He will be. At Thorin’s service. And Thorin will be at his, just as he said. Naturally.

A smile graces an otherwise stony face, making Thorin’s eyes glow. “The wizard was right. He knew what I needed I would find here. You. My own. My one.”

His hands softly squeeze Bilbo’s, and the bachelor of Bag End falls irrevocably in love.

Chapter Text

The euphoria of the moment between Thorin and Bilbo, as sweet as it is, fades as Bilbo remembers the facts of his current reality. His guests are inside, waiting on coffee and apple tarts as well as Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle, which he hasn’t even started baking. Thorin needs to be added to the twelve other dwarves currently straining the seams of Bag End. And so, as much as Bilbo would prefer to be skipping through a meadow tossing flower petals in his ecstasy, he instead clears his throat, swallows, and finds somewhere other than Thorin’s remarkable eyes to fix his gaze.

“Right, so, I understand there is a Company and I am to be part of it, perhaps, but, well, I’m in the middle of my elderly aunt’s birthday luncheon at the moment so it will all have to wait until she departs. I… I apologize for the inconvenience. Correct as Gandalf was to bring you here, his timing could’ve been better.”

Why does if feel so strange, so wrong, to present the situation to Thorin, after he’s done it four other times today? I suppose though I said I was at all the dwarves’ service, I didn’t really mean it until now.

He hardly dares to breathe until Thorin huffs out a low chuckle. “Very well. Our business can wait the span of one luncheon.”

“We’re almost done anyway. Down to the desserts.”

“Good.”

Bilbo’s gaze is drawn up and again thoroughly arrested by Thorin’s. Quite without thinking, Bilbo turns his hands atop the gate and wraps them around Thorin’s, or at least as far as they can reach. And oh, how he’d like to stay here and simply be, be with this person he was so nearly certain didn’t exist, not for him. It aches to let go, move away, even just to swing open the gate and let Thorin step through.

“Now, please be quiet as I lead you in. My aunt cannot bear excitement.” He’s said that four other times today and only now does he fully see it for the lie that it is. A lie he told out of shame. But he isn’t ashamed of Thorin. How could he be? But then, does that mean he’ll just march Thorin over to a seat at the dining table? How ruinous would the consequences be that would surely fall upon his head? Perhaps he is ashamed. And ashamed of his shame. His head hurts, and so does his heart. “Just, please come with me.”

He takes Thorin’s hand and they silently slip into Bag End. They pass through the kitchen where Ori gives a tight smile and raises a finger to speak, but in his turmoil Bilbo brushes him off and carries on, while also failing to notice the smell of baking souffle as they pass.

There is space for one more in the third guestroom. Bilbo knows this. But somehow that doesn’t manage to stop him from continuing on to the master bedroom. Being alone with Thorin has very suddenly entered at least the top five of Bilbo’s favorite activities- he can’t help taking all he can get.

Once safely ensconced within, he says, “You’ll be fine here. The rest of the Company- except Ori, as you saw, and Bofur- are in the guestrooms. It will only be for a little while, I promise, then we’ll sort out everything. I’m just- I’m so very sorry. This is all quite silly, I know. Ridiculous, really. It’s only I didn’t expect-”

His babble stops when his hand in Thorin’s is tugged, and he’s drawn closer, close enough for a warm forehead to press against his own. His free hand flaps uselessly for a second before it’s gently captured and pressed to Thorin’s chest. Bilbo’s eyes slip shut, and it all goes away- the shame and guilt and worry and even the bubbling excitement. His shoulders- when did they tense up almost to his ears?- fall into heavy relaxation, and he breathes, and feels Thorin’s breath puff against his cheeks.

“Amral, be calm. All is well. We will wait until the luncheon is done. Mahal knows I am accustomed to waiting.”

Bilbo badly wants to ask what he means by that, suddenly sure there is a story attached to this dwarf that will make all his books of history seem like children’s tales. But if Thorin can wait, he can as well. So he flattens his palm on Thorin’s chest and squeezes his hand, then softly pushes away and lets go. He watches Thorin’s eyes flick open and the banked heat in them nearly drives him right back to crash into Thorin’s arms and…

“I really must see to Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle.”

Heat switching to confusion in those eyes finally breaks the spell, allowing Bilbo to turn on a heel and leave Thorin shut up in his bedroom as he scurries down the hall. He stops in the kitchen where Ori waits, and mutedly claps his hands together to focus his scattered thoughts. “Right. I need to whip the egg whites and add the sugar and fold them in with the yolks and-”

“Done that.”

His thoughts scatter again, leaving only Ori to focus on. “What?”

The dwarf gives him a wincing smile. “Well, you were gone for quite a bit. And the tea was done, and I reckoned the yolks were cool enough, so I… I just went ahead. Everything was set out, you know, the bowls and such. They’re in the oven. Hope that’s all right.”

“All… right…?” Bilbo hasn’t the faintest clue. He lunges over to the oven and cracks open the door. Six bowls are filled with a bubbling egg mixture that looks the way it’s always looked at this point in the preparation of Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle. “It seems fine to me,” he says with a note of wonder in his voice, “Only time will tell, of course.”

“Of course.”

He closes the oven and asks, “Oin’s had his tea?”

“Yes, I brought it to him. We cracked the window in that room, to let the smell out.”

“Good. And the souffles are cooking. And- right, coffee and tarts.” Between him and Ori, it’s the work of a few minutes to warm up the pre-made dessert course and set it on a tray. Looking it over, Bilbo nods. “Yes, good. Um- oh! While I’m at the table, can you fetch Bofur in from- wherever he’s gone outside?”

“Will do.”

“Wonderful.” Before hoisting up the tray, Bilbo looks at Ori. “You’ve really been terrifically helpful. I’m not sure I could’ve done this alone. Thank you.”

Ori smiles, for once without any underlying winces or grimaces. “Well, you’re in the Company. Or you will be, soon.”

Bilbo flinches, and looks away, fiddling with the coffee cups. Part of the Company? No, he isn’t. And doesn’t intend to be, does he? Gandalf’s words from earlier return to him- I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure. His acceptance certainly felt unthinkable then, not two days ago. Now, he doesn’t know what he thinks.

In any case, he has a dessert to deliver. He hoists the tray and goes to the dining room.

Chapter Text

In his seat at the table, Drogo will soon find himself on an adventure of his own. The failed bird-chase was almost fun, but he’s fairly ready for this luncheon to conclude. Judging by the way Auntie Flora’s head is drooping, she is too. He hopes she stays awake for the two-part dessert course. With his bottomless tween stomach he can’t help noticing how very bare the table is of leftovers from the main course. He could’ve sworn he left a bite or two of mince pie on his plate. And wasn’t the cheese wheel significantly larger?

He’s about to mention his findings when he feels the slightest tug on a curl on his right foot. He glances down and just barely spots a retreating hand. Shock turns his body to ice while the Sackville-Bagginses natter on about something. Drogo hardly ever bothers to pay attention to adults, and those two least of all. Therefore, his rigid posture and fixed stare under the table go unnoticed, even when he bites back a gasp as a face appears near his feet- the bearded face of a blond, grinning, winking dwarf. Drogo squeezes his eyes shut to banish this bizarre hallucination, and opens them only to find a brunet dwarf has joined the other, this one grinning just as wide and holding a finger to his lips in a shushing motion.

Two dwarves! How by Eru have two dwarves come to be lying on the floor under Cousin Bilbo’s dining room table right in the middle of Auntie Flora’s birthday luncheon?! Drogo is utterly flummoxed. Does Bilbo even know? He must know, and that’s why he’s been so flighty this whole time. He’s never shown a great passion for bird-watching- is that when this odd pair invaded the dining room? They can’t have been down there for the duration. But why would Bilbo allow such a thing? Drogo must admit he’s impressed. He’s always thought of his cousin as nice enough company for a rather boring homebody. When did he befriend- well, anyone, let alone two dwarves, let alone two dwarves who would sneak under a table during a private family occasion?

“Who are you?” Drogo mouths, trying to balance subtlety with clarity so he might be understood by the dwarves but not noticed by his fellow guests.

The blond whispers just on the edge of hearing, “Fili.” He then hooks a thumb at his companion. “Kili.”

Waggling eyebrows join Kili’s grin, and he even waves.

Drogo can’t really help smiling back. These two aren’t bad-looking, for dwarves. “Why are you here?” he mouths.

The two exchange looks, clearly trying to boil down their response to something short and simple. “Business with Bilbo,” Fili decides on and Kili nods.

Well, I could’ve guessed that , Drogo grouses in his mind, rolling his eyes. This action lets him notice Gandalf peering over at him. He plasters a smile on his face, unable as ever to fathom what might be going through the gray wanderer’s mind. Gandalf simply returns his smile and seems to move his attention back to Lobelia’s latest monologue.

“… and of course I wasn’t going to mention it, but truly the amount of weeds in Bilbo’s garden was quite shocking. No wonder he’s out there now dealing with them. I could hardly live with myself if my garden was in such a state. But then, we already know his gardener doesn’t know a dandelion from a tomato, so I suppose he’s on his own, the poor thing.”

As long as he lives, Drogo will never understand where Lobelia’s deep well of unpleasantness springs from. She couldn’t even leave the memory of Bilbo’s mother alone, not when she was about to be served Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle. Bilbo should smash it in her face when it’s ready, if that wouldn’t be a horrible waste of the best dessert in all Hobbiton. And of course Otho only egged her on, and even Auntie Flora got a jab in. Really, Drogo thinks sometimes there are quite a few better things to be than a Baggins.

He glances down at the dwarves again, and finds them glaring in Lobelia’s direction right along with him. “What a-” Kili whispers, followed by a string of harsh syllables Drogo assumes mean nothing at all nice in the dwarven language. He nods grimly.

“And now, may I present Aunt Flora’s Birthday Luncheon Dessert... Part One,” Bilbo declares as he comes around the corner with a heavily laden tray.

Otho starts in his seat. “Gracious, Bilbo, we thought you were still outside, handling those weeds.”

Bilbo blinks in confusion. “It was only one or two. Of course we all know it’s important to get rid of them when they’ve only just started, or you’ll be overrun before you can say ‘Longbottom Leaf’ three times. I was in the kitchen. Perhaps you’ll notice the lovely smell of Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle- it’s in the oven now.”

“I certainly did notice a smell, just after we came inside,” Lobelia remarks, “Quite an awful smell it was. Simply hideous.”

“Right, yes,” Bilbo replies, “I noticed that too. After I was done with the weeds, I popped over to the neighbor’s. They were turning over their compost pile. The last of the smell should be gone soon. It’s already being replaced by something much nicer, wouldn’t you say?”

“They chose to do this during our luncheon?” Lobelia says over the other guests’ agreement, “How uncivilized. Bilbo, I highly suggest you consider moving. How could you bear such horrid neighbors?”

Bilbo’s smile turns stiff. “Times are rare when our separate activities clash, Lobelia, I assure you. They have no more complaints about me than I do about them. I am perfectly comfortable here.”

Lobelia’s pantomime of concern collapses into a glare while Bilbo distributes coffee and apple tarts. When Drogo receives his, he finds he’s not hungry at all. There’s something else he’d like to do with his tart. He plucks it from the plate and leans back in his chair to catch Fili’s eye. With a shielding hand raised to scratch at his temple, he says slowly in his softest tone, “Take the filling and put it in her foot hair.”

Fili stares at Drogo’s mouth as he speaks, which makes him blush a bit, but he soon nods with a smirk of pure mischief. Drogo passes him the tart, only realizing as he does so that the tarts have likely been freshly warmed and Lobelia will be hard-pressed not to notice hot apple goo oozing down her foot. If it’s hot enough to actually scald her, they’ll not hear the end of it until her dying day. She might actually try to loose the bounders on Bilbo. He thrusts his foot out to poke at whatever part of Fili or Kili is nearest.

“Drogo, are you quite all right?” Gandalf asks, arching a bushy eyebrow.

Drogo forces out a laugh. “Oh yes, perfectly so. A leg cramp, that’s all.”

“You need to drink more water then,” Bilbo says with a look of concern. “Can I get you some? Maybe you’re a little young for coffee.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Bilbo. Easy thing to forget, isn’t it? Water.” Even as he smiles, Drogo’s heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. Is this what his cousin has been enduring all this time? Hiding dwarves is terrifying.

“I need to check the souffle anyway. Back shortly, everyone.”

He’s hardly around the corner before Lobelia says, “And there he goes again. Really, Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle is certainly a rare treat, but is it honestly worth the blatant abandonment of all one’s hosting responsibilities? I think not, quite frankly.”

Otho grunts, Aunt Flora hums, and Drogo says to Fili, “Tart her.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo means to stop in the kitchen, he really does. But one relatively short exposure to Lobelia and the wild improvisation about an imaginary compost pile have left him drained and in need of one thing and one thing only. He keeps walking through to the bedroom wing, all the way to his own room. Where his own is waiting.

Thorin bolts up from where he was sitting at the foot of the bed, instantly smiling and striding forward almost before Bilbo can shut the door. Then he’s striding forward too, meeting Thorin halfway and burying himself in the kind of embrace only two well-muscled dwarven arms and a firm dwarven torso can provide. Again, a peace Bilbo hasn’t known before today floods him and he melts against Thorin’s chest. But what will that mean when the luncheon is over? Bilbo can’t think of it now, he can only cling to Thorin’s waist and rub his cheek on his vest.

Thorin runs a hand down Bilbo’s back, sending warmth rippling through his whole body. He hums and tilts his head so he might deliver a well-earned smile to the dwarf. Thorin smiles back, then dips his head closer. Bilbo’s lips tingle with anticipation before one last scrap of good sense commands him to duck his head and return his cheek to where it was.

“No,” he says, “Not- not now. If I start I won’t be able to stop, of that I am certain.”

Bilbo feels more than hears the chuckle rumbling within Thorin’s chest. “For my own part, I am inclined to agree.” They stay like that, simply holding one another, for a long moment. When Bilbo feels half-asleep in his comfort, he hears Thorin say, “Perhaps I might give you a small gift. Something that will show any dwarf who you are to me.”

“Of course, my dear,” he murmurs, not even bothering to move as he feels Thorin separate a curl that falls behind his right ear. After a bit of fiddling, he lets go, and an unfamiliar weight dangles down from the curl. He unwinds an arm from Thorin’s waist and touches at a cool metal object hanging in his hair.

“I would ask that you allow your hair to grow some, so that I might braid it properly. For now, the bead alone will do.”

“Oh. How nice.” Bilbo cherishes it already as he twists it back and forth, being careful not to tug and accidentally remove it. He takes a half-step back and catches the hand that placed the bead, pressing a kiss to its scarred knuckles. Thorin leans close and returns the kiss on Bilbo’s forehead, then his cheekbone, pausing there and breathing hard just as Bilbo is as hot desire races through them both.

“Go now,” Thorin whispers, “Lest we forget ourselves.”

Bilbo releases a truly pathetic whine of reluctance, then steps far enough to put cooler air between them. He draws a strengthening breath so he might turn away and not look at Thorin before leaving the room. He shuts the door and leans against it until he feels less like a boiling pot of need, and decides to quickly check on the remainder of his dwarves.

In the nearest guestroom, Gloin appears fast asleep and Balin deeply involved reading very small writing on a very long piece of paper. That is, until the latter looks up at Bilbo’s entrance and his eyes immediately fly to the bead. “Oh. My. Is that…?”

“Thorin’s gift to me, yes,” Bilbo replies, blushing like a tween showing off a buttonhole flower from his first sweetheart. “You… know what it means?”

Balin looks slightly offended. “It could hardly mean anything else. Well, I suppose you ought to embrace me then, cousin.”

He stands and Bilbo doesn’t shrink from the promised embrace, including the surprise tapping of foreheads.

“What a strange turn of events this is, laddie,” he says while releasing Bilbo and stepping back, “But then, there are stranger, I’m sure.”

“Indeed. So, if you and Gloin are, ah… Wait, weren’t there four of you in here?”

Balin blinks and looks over his shoulder. “Oh. Oh dear.”

Bilbo heaves a sigh, relegating the finding of two runaway dwarves to some later time. “Anyway, if you don’t need anything…”

“No, no. Well, there is this contract I’ve got for you to read.”

“Afterwards,” Bilbo quickly waves him off, “Most assuredly, then. Pardon me.”

He ducks out of the room and goes next door. There he finds Dori pacing, Oin taking deep drafts of odiferous steam from his teacup near the open window, and Bombur not doing much of anything until he spots Bilbo’s bead. “By Durin’s beard!” he cries at half-volume.

Dori rounds on Bilbo, jabbing a finger in his face as he demands, “Tell me what it is you’ve got my brother doing exactly. I don’t see him for half an age, and when he comes with the tea all he’ll say is that he’s helping and he’s busy. If you’ve got him doing something… something…” His gaze drifts from Bilbo’s face to the bead and the burgeoning tirade falls into silence, the accusing finger drifting down to his side.

“Ori is helping, and he is busy,” Bilbo concurs, “At the moment I think he’s fetching in Bofur who I needed for a chore outside. He’s also been instrumental in the success of my luncheon. You should be very proud of your brother.”

Dori backs off, muttering, “Of course I’m proud. No reason not to be, prince consort.”

Bilbo isn’t sure what to make of that address, but carries on, “I just wanted to check on you three. Luncheon will be over very soon. I thank you for your patience.”

Bombur stands with Dori, and the two bow solemnly. “We thank you for your hospitality, prince consort,” the former says.

“Uh, right. You’re most welcome.” Under the dwarves’ reverent gaze, Bilbo leaves the second guestroom, and goes to the first. Inside, he spots Bifur napping and Dwalin and Nori… not fighting, but they still spring apart like startled cats when Bilbo enters. Having another whispered shouting match, he assumes. It’s gotten them both quite red-faced.

Dwalin is the first to spot the bead, and he lets out a dramatic if quiet groan. “That’s just great. It was gonna be difficult enough keeping Thorin alive. Now there’s you to worry about.”

“Congratulations, anyway,” Nori says, elbowing Dwalin in the side.

“Ach aye, congrats, cousin,” he grumbles with a reluctant smile.

“Right. Thank you,” Bilbo says, “Luncheon will be over soon. Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, we’re fine. Just shout when the coast is clear, yeah?” Nori replies.

“I will.” Bilbo departs and continues on to the kitchen where he peeks into the oven. Nearly done, ten minutes at most, he determines, and gets a cup of water for Drogo.

He then fiddles with his hair, drawing curls around to cover the bead, feeling lower than pond scum as he does. The end of the luncheon is coming, and he truly does not know what will follow.

Chapter Text

Holding his head still to keep the bead from falling free, Bilbo returns to the dining room table and hands Drogo a cup of water, exchanging smiles with him. He sits and announces, “Ten minutes until Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle.”

“What a relief,” Lobelia sighs dramatically. Otho sniggers. Aunt Flora hums.

The old hot rage sparks in Bilbo’s gut. But this time, instead of soothing it away with his mother’s wisdom or a brisk walk around the garden, he lets it grow. Lets it roll up, and make his ears burn, and make his head turn to Lobelia as he says, “So, cousin! Perhaps you might tell me, what was your favorite part of our auntie’s birthday luncheon?”

She blinks, her smile cool. “Well, I suppose it will be my portion of Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle. One can endure almost anything for a taste of that dessert.”

“I’m glad you think so. I believe it will be the last taste of Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle you will ever have.”

Lobelia blinks again, smile quirking. “Whyever might that be, Bilbo?”

“Simply because you don’t deserve it, Lobelia. You never have, and you never will. Not as long as you remain the rotten-hearted shrew that you are.”

Lobelia’s mouth drops into a perfect O, and Otho shifts forward in his chair and jabs a finger at Bilbo. “Here now, you can’t speak to my wife like that.”

“I’m only saying what absolutely everyone is thinking and has thought for years,” Bilbo retorts, “She’s horrible. And you’re barely any better, and that only because you’re not smart enough to be worse.”

“How dare you,” Otho growls. “You little-”

“Bilbo,” Aunt Flora interrupts, squinting at a spot below his right ear. Bilbo’s stomach drops. “What’s that in your hair?”

Gandalf cranes his head down and looks as genuinely surprised as Bilbo has ever seen him, then he smiles. “Bilbo, my friend, how wonderful…”

Lobelia spots it and her eyes burn with vicious glee. “What a peculiar fashion choice, Cousin Bilbo,” she croons, “A bead in your hair? How utterly ridiculous it looks. And what are those carvings, some sort of dwarven gibberish?”

“Never seen something so hideous,” Otho chimes in, “Imagine, a hobbit going ‘round pretending he’s a dwarf. Of all the preposterous things. You’ll be a laughingstock for sure, Bilbo. Why’s it got an oak with stars on it-?”

The table jumps as something thuds into it from underneath. Everyone seated jolts back, conveniently making room for two young dwarves to spill out and leap to their feet on either side of Bilbo’s chair. “Don’t any of you talk to our new uncle like that!” the brunet one- Bilbo still isn’t sure if he’s Fili or Kili- roars at the assembled guests.

“You’ll keep your tongues civil around our uncle, or you’ll lose them,” the blond one growls, and a wicked silver blade appears in his hand.

Chaos ensues.

Lobelia, Otho, and Drogo are on their feet, all shouting about seemingly entirely different things. Very soon, dwarf after dwarf after dwarf races into the dining room with their own shouts, leading Gandalf to stand and try to make himself heard over all and failing quite spectacularly. Aunt Flora stays seated, simply glancing around in pure befuddlement. Bilbo also stays seated, chin in his hands as he watches every bit of effort he’s spent on this luncheon go up in flames. He’s briefly sorry for it, until he sees Thorin standing at the back of the crowd.

He gets up and wends his way through, drawing attention and a modicum of silence in his wake. He and Thorin share a smile, before Bilbo takes his hand and leads him over to the table.

“Aunt Flora?” he says, and the wizened hobittess peers up at him. “This is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. We’ve only just met, but I think- no, I know he is the love of my life. And… we’re going on an adventure, quite soon.”

Thorin’s hand squeezes his, and Bilbo can’t stop smiling.

Meanwhile, Aunt Flora frowns. “But, Bilbo, you are a Baggins. No Baggins goes on adventures, it’s simply not done.”

“That’s not fair!” Drogo cries, “Bilbo is a Baggins right enough, and so whatever he does is what a Baggins does.”

Bilbo shares a proud smile with his cousin, and tries to come up with his own words of defense, until Dwalin’s voice cuts across the room, “Florabella?” He’s squinting at Aunt Flora, but then grins broadly. “Ach, it is you! It’s been a long time, lass. A very long time. But I still remember you, sure I do. What a wild night in Michel Delving that was, eh?”

Aunt Flora’s disapproving frown shatters into a rictus of horror as she stares at the hulking dwarf. Horror, and recognition. Silence rings through the whole of Bag End. Then she shrieks, “Lobelia, Otho, I must go home NOW!”

The Sackville-Bagginses lunge into action, grabbing her sack bag and helping her stand while Dwalin says, “Hey now, do you no’ want to get reacquainted, Florabella? Want to know what new tricks I’ve learned?”

Aunt Flora lets out a final half-choked scream as Otho and Lobelia hurry her away, the latter hopping on one foot yelping about something in her hair.

“Happy birthday, Aunt Flora!” Bilbo calls as they pass. When the door slams shut behind them, he feels strange. Fuzzy. Untethered, like a cloud in the sky. But he’s still got Thorin’s hand in his, so it’s all right.

He lets a gentle tug on his hand turn him to face Thorin, and bask in the glory of those eyes once again. “You’ll come with me then, with us?”

“Oh yes. I’d like nothing more.”

Cheers fly up from the dwarves while Thorin brings his free hand to Bilbo’s cheek, stroking it softly before he leans close-

“No, the souffle!” Bilbo shouts in his face and races off to the kitchen. There he finds Bofur and Ori standing at the stove with a tray of six perfect portions of Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle.

“Ah, there you are,” Ori says, “You should do the honors, really.”

Bofur grins and jerks his head at the tray. “Yeah, show us how it goes.”

Bilbo reverently steps up to the stove. He takes the caramel and gives each portion a generous drizzle. He then scoops one large dollop of meringue onto each. And then he drizzles more caramel. And so, Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle is complete.

It’s not easy to stretch six portions to feed sixteen, but the Company manages it easily enough . Fili and Kili are made to surrender theirs to Bifur and Bombur because naughty nephews who sneak under tables don’t get dessert, but they along with Drogo steal bites here and there from others . Oin’ s nose is still too stuffed to appreciate the taste and so he surrenders his share to Dori . Ori and Bofur split the portion with the most caramel and meringue as thanks for their invaluable help. Gloin isn’t much for sweets and so passes his to Balin after a spoonful. Gandalf declares a four-course hobbit- style luncheon is plenty of food for him and waves off more than a bite or two . Bilbo thinks he spots Nori feeding some to Dwalin , but he was probably mistaken. Anyway, h e’s rather distracted feeding Thorin, and sharing their first kiss, flavored with Belladonna Took’s Famous Caramel Meringue Souffle.