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Thorin had lived in Middle Earth, the oldest and largest of the supernatural cities though at this stage it was over 55% humans with no mixed blood or magical ability and something around 25% of those born with mixed blood were also without any magical ability, all his life. Most of it was spent in the North District that was mostly occupied by dwarf descendents and other creatures who prefered stone and earth overhead, but he’d occasionally crossed over into the Elflands, in the East, and the human district to the West. Yet, in all his years, he’d never felt the urge to wander into the far south district,where halfling and fey borne congregated.
There had never been any need for it and it wasn’t strange; those in Middle Earth had always kept to their own and when they did mix it was mostly in the Central district. Thorin worked there, as all members of the District Forces did, but his patrol area was in the North, and specifically the communities of Erebor and Iron Hills. The South was peaceful, almost suspiciously so from Thorin’s point of view, so there had never been a reason for the officers who worked there to call on any of the other departments.
Thorin’s first thought when he crossed the magical border in the South District, lovingly called the Shire by those who lived there, was that it was very...green. And quiet. The highway immediately narrowed into a two lane road with rolling hills dotted with wildflowers and swaying grass on either side. There were a few buildings on the horizon, his GPS labeled them as farms, but that was about it.
It was nothing like his district, with its neighborhoods carved in the mountains, homes built near on top of each other, and winding maze like roads and passages cutting through everything. Even late at night the North was bustling with activity, the midnight markets full of life, the businesses that catered to the miners and crafters never shut down, the universities and their neighborhoods rarely calmed, and the major roads were never completely clear.
Twenty minutes later found him pushing through the round door of a small, well lit restaurant in ‘Downtown Hobbiton’, which seemed to consist of a handful of small shops, a small market in the village square that was already closed for the night, and a large park.
The sign in the restaurant's window named it ‘Bag End’, the last building on Bagshot Row, and according to his nephews it was just the place he needed to go after wrapping up his last case. He was skeptical, unsure what a small restaurant off in the southern district could offer, but refusing his nephews when they were well and determined was basically impossible.
It was very much as Fili and Kili had described it: a bit strange but oddly homey. It was a small cozy space with polished floors, an eclectic collection tables, all with squat green candles flickering in the center, and mismatched chairs in various styles. A roaring fireplace with well padded chairs and a small couch arranged around it took up one corner and about a fourth of the space and one of the earthen walls was lined with shelving and crammed to the point of sagging with books. Most of the light came from lanterns strung overhead. In the back was a long counter made of what looked like old, bleached wooden planks, lined with stools. Behind that was a glass case full of cakes and pies slowly rotating inside of it, a small cooking set up with two burns and a griddle, a table lined with unlabeled jars and tins, and a door leading to, Thorin assumed, the kitchen.
The air was thick with the smell of spices all running together to become something warm and sweet. It was late and that showed in the sparse amount of patrons inside, only a small group teenagers tucked into the corner nearest the counter. They were bent over a collection of textbooks with a laptop open on the table between them.
A bell chimed when he stepped inside and again as the door closed gently behind him. Some heads turned towards him, curiosity in their gazes, before he was quickly dismissed in favor of whatever they’d been doing before. One of the boys, this one with black curls and dusky skin, at the table regarded him for a few beats longer than the others before he, twisted around in his seat and shouted.
“Uncle!”
The door behind the counter swung open a second later and out bustled a small man in a long flour dusted apron. Fey or halflingborne most likely. He was a bit on the heavier side with wheatish skin, a mass of curly reddish-brown hair, and an absent smile on his lips.
“Yes, Frodo, wh- Oh! Hello, welcome to Bag End, please take a seat.” The man gestured to the row of stools. “This is your first time here.”
It sounded more like a statement than a question to Thorin but he nodded anyway. He cast another look at the boys but found the one who'd called for the man was already absorbed in his work again, highlighting something in his book with one hand and pointing at something in one of the other books with the other. A worker, maybe, or someone who came regularly enough to know the staff.
“Sorry, I didn't hear the bell. Please, excuse the mess, I wasn’t expecting anyone else tonight so I was starting the baking for tomorrow.”
Thorin paused in taking his seat, frowning. “You’re closing soon? I won’t put you out-”
“No, not at all! I’m open another hour or so, but it’s typically just the regular students from South and Central at this time. My nephew and his friends usually tend to them.” The man looked pointedly in the direction of the four teens, none of who could be bothered to look up or acknowledge that they'd been spoken of. Thorin blinked slowly and got a sheepish smile in return. “When they’re so inclined. Now, you look like someone who needs a drink and something sweet to eat!”
He said it with the conviction of a man who knew he was right; Thorin lifted an eyebrow. “Do I?”
“I'm fairly certain you didn't come here for the scenery, so yes.” Bilbo said primly, but not without humor. Thorin inclined his head, willing to concede the point.
“My nephews said this was where I needed to go because the owner has the ability to make just what a person needs without having to ask them first.” And that this place made all the ‘bad shit from the day vanish’ to quote Kili, but Thorin wasn't quite ready to put that much faith in a meal just yet.
Even if he had traveled nearly an hour out of his way for it and was, maybe, hoping it would turn out to be true. He wasn't much for the workings of Kitchen Witches; his work made him hypersensitive to spellwork and as a side effect the taste of magic and intent in food was often overpowering to him. There were some famous Kitchen Witches who promised fully immersive emotional journeys with their cooking but to Thorin such things always felt...hollow and uncomfortably artificial. And the idea of manipulating emotion, even temporarily, never sat right with him. It was illegal in most cases, with the only exception being for entertainment purposes under a set time limit, for a reason.
But Fili and Kili insisted this witch and his food weren’t like that. To the contrary they swore up and down that Bilbo Baggins was something special (apparently they’d become experts in magic while he wasn’t looking) and it was a testament to how out of sorts Thorin was that he was even considering it. If this didn’t work out the next step was going to Oin and, while he didn’t doubt Oin’s ability he wasn’t eager to admit he hadn’t been sleeping well in weeks to the coven’s healer just yet.
That was a lecture he didn’t want to suffer through at all and, knowing Oin, he’d bring in Balin and Dis so they could all be ‘ very disappointed in him for ‘taking work home’ ’ together.
“Fili and Kili? That must make you…’Uncle-Officer Thorin, who has no sense of humor and is the most decorated detective in the Northern District’?” Bilbo asked, unruffled by the flat look Thorin laid on him in response. “I might have have guessed. I don't get many from the northern district, or I didn't used to, but those two seem determined to tell everyone they know about my restaurant.”
Some of Thorin’s unease lifted in the face of the small man’s fond exasperation and tired amusement, a familiar reaction to the mentioning of his nephews. They were good boys, the very best in Thorin's entirely biased opinion, and he was proud to have had a hand in the raising of them but they could be a handful at the best of times.
“They speak very highly of you.” He paused. “They said I have no sense of humor?”
Bilbo shrugged apologetically. “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.” Thorin’s eyes slide to the side to focus on a point behind Bilbo’s head where a delicate looking china plate sat on a shelf, propped up for display. Bilbo cleared his throat. “...well, either way I suspect it's the free cake that makes them speak about me at all. Lucky for my reputation I do know just what you need, if you don’t mind waiting a bit.”
Bilbo didn’t wait for an answer before spinning on his heel and hurrying back through the door. Thorin watched him leave, not at all sure what to make of that. He’d looked completely confident in himself and Thorin would be have been a liar if denied that intrigued him a little. Claiming to be able to cater to a person without at least a little knowledge of them, or at least skin to skin contact to attempt to read them, was bold. It was possible Bilbo could do a reading without contact but he hardly registered to Thorin as having magic let alone enough for a feat like that.
This would be interesting if nothing else.
Bilbo was back quickly, a loaded down tray in his arms. A small copper pot, two plates, one with a tall sandwich and the other covered, an orange, and an unlabeled glass bottle full of something murky brown were balanced upon it. The tray went down and then the plate with the sandwich was set in front of Thorin. Thorin eyed the sandwich skeptically. “A sandwich?”
“Roast beef, roasted eggplant and red peppers, homemade mozzarella cheese.” Bilbo listed, focus on the row of jars and containers behind the counter. He picked up a few and added them to the counter, paused, and then swapped one of them for something else, mumbling to himself the whole time. “Cardamom?” He shot Thorin a considering look then scoffed softly. “...no, no, he clearly has no need for that.”
One of the four boys at the table, younger looking than the other four with a head of unruly golden curls, giggled but a quelling look from Bilbo had him hastily returning to his work. Bilbo rolled his eyes then reached for another container.
“Allspice berries, I...is something wrong? Do you not eat meat?” Bilbo tilted his head to the side, nose wrinkling. “Fili and Kili inhale just about anything I put in front of them so I assumed-”
Thorin held up a placating hand. “It’s fine. I was just...what’s it for?”
Bilbo blinked. “To make you less hungry I hope.” Thorin stared. Bilbo stared back then, eyes widening, chuckled. “It’s just a sandwich. I had beef and eggplant left over from the day and you look like you could do with more than just dessert.”
It was, it turned out, a very good sandwich. Good enough that with most of his attention on Bilbo he scarcely realized he’d eaten the whole thing until his hand met crumbs on the otherwise empty plate. Though, further in his defense, watching Bilbo was strangely...hypnotic in a way witnessing someone’s spellcraft wasn’t normally.
The pot went on the cooktop, the flame was turned on, and the glass bottle was uncorked, letting the heavy smell of apples fill the air. Bilbo poured the contents into the pot, humming softly as he did, then peeled a few strips from the orange before slicing it up. All of that went into the pot, followed by whole cloves, cinnamon sticks, allspice berries, nutmeg (Sigils and runes were Thorin’s area but he’d worked a few more traditional spells in his time and knew his way around a basic herb selection) brown sugar, and a splash of orange juice taken from somewhere below the counter.
Bilbo stirred the mixture constantly, always clockwise, and chattered near non-stop. He talked about his nephew, Frodo, about the Shire, about how hiring Ori to do ‘tech things’ had resulted in Fili and Kili popping into his life and all the Northern district folk who had followed; he seemed content to talk and Thorin was content to listen, laughing a bit along the way. There was a near mournful moment when Bilbo announced he was done, though Thorin dismissed it.
The timing lined up very neatly with Thorin finishing his sandwich and, just as he was looking down in surprise at the plate, a steaming mug was placed in front of him along with the covered plate.
“Mulled cider and ginger cookies.” Bilbo explained as he took the cover off the plate to reveal a small pile of small, brown cookies. Thorin picked one up, lips quirking as he took in the shape.
“Acorns?”
Bilbo sniffed. “I have it on good authority your coven works anvils into everything-”
“What’s wrong with anvils?”
“What’s wrong with acorns?”
Thorin decided, for once in his life, discretion was the best course of action. He bit into one of the cookies, wondering if they were part of the magic here or not. He got his answer right away; ginger and spice spread over his tongue and, just under it and barely there, was a trace of something warm and comforting. It wasn’t much, he would be willing to bet that it would go undetected by most, but it was there: a subtle layer of magic.
Very subtle and without any force to it. There was intent and will, a very strong will, driving it but it wasn’t pushing or trying to make itself known. It was more like a question, curious and eager but willing to wait and see.
The cider had the same same feel to it but with a little something extra woven in. Another sip, this time opening himself up to what was there just a touch, and he felt it, a slow rolling warmth in his chest that began to spread out almost immediately. It was the same feeling that welled up when his nephews excelled in their studies, when Dis and her company reached another milestone, or Frerin called to boast about what his ‘amazing’ students were up to. It was the same he felt when the members of the Durin Coven were happy and whole, or when they sought him out for help before going to anyone else.
Affection, love; not artificial but completely real. His own, even, gently coaxed up from within him to push back the bleakness that had settled over him weeks ago. He could feel Bilbo’s magic, bright and green , wrapped up in golden threads of his own happiness, bouying the emotion but not crossing over into.
Thorin peered down into his cup. “That is-”
“Just what you needed, as promised?” Bilbo guessed, wide eyed and guileless. “I’m shocked.”
“And modest.” Thorin deadpanned.
“Not deliberately, I assure you.” Bilbo placed his elbows on the counter and leaned forward. “Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“Does that help the magic?”
Bilbo looked at him like he found him amazingly frustrating. "No, it’s just something some people find helpful when they’re stressed out. There’s whole professions dedicated to it, last I heard.”
Thorin let the sarcasm slide by the grace of fantastic cookies and let the offer roll around in his brain. A lot about the case was public knowledge, and anything that wasn’t he could easily censor, and maybe he did need to talk to someone about it. Children, all of them born without magic to mixed blood families, three taken and murdered in the past seventeen months and a fourth gone missing three weeks ago.
It was hard to look at the files and not think of Fili and Kili, or Ori, or Gimli who was sixteen and hadn’t shown any affinity for the sorts of magic the Durin Coven was connected to.
“It isn’t pleasant.” He looked sidelong at the four boys sitting at the nearby table.
Bilbo leaned further over the counter. “Frodo, isn’t it time for the four of you to actually earn the money I give you? There’s dishes stacked to the ceiling in the back.” Three voices rose up in protest (and one to say “Of course Mister Baggins” but was swiftly drowned out by the others.) Bilbo sniffed, unimpressed. “Get to it.”
They filed out, grumbling loudly. Bilbo waited until they were gone, and the sound of banging and water running trickled out to them, before turning an expectant look on Thorin. Who took a breath and began to speak.
---
It was much later than he realized (the four boys, identified as Frodo, Samwise, Pergrin-but-call-me-Pippen, and Meriadoc, had long since declared themselves done and headed to bed) when Bilbo walked him to the door. The talk had slid from his case to with more cookies than he should have eaten and no less than three mugs of cider drunken, Thorin did feel more at ease than he’d felt in some time.
“Next time I’ll make you something more impressive than a sandwich.” Bilbo promised as he held the door open for him.
Thorin refrained from saying he was already impressed. “You’re sure I’ll be back? Is that part of your magic?”
“You’re very focused on magic.” Bilbo murmured, looking up at him through pale lashes and Thorin realized his eyes were a mercurial gray-blue, shifting between the two in the light of the overhead lantern. “I’m hopeful.”
Thorin decided, as he walked back to his car, that he was as well.
He was almost certain it wasn’t the magic.