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To say that Bofur acclimated to life in the Shire would be something of a ridiculous understatement.
Though he said he was only staying a month (“Just getting you home, Bilbo, promise not to eat all the food!”), he clearly took on an attitude that absorbing the culture was an integral part of any proper visit.
He took his heavy coat off the first day. “Weather’s so fine here, and everyone keeps staring,” he explained as he shoved it down to the bottom of his travel pack.
By the end of the first week, he abandoned three meals for five. “Can’t quite manage seven, but I’m workin’ on it,” and “With all this hauling about of furniture, I need my strength!” (when Bilbo specifically told him, on multiple occasions, that he would not dream of asking a guest - especially one who insisted on leaving his new home and family behind to escort Bilbo back to his own round door - to help out around the house, Bofur cheerfully ignored him and spent hours putting Bilbo’s home back to rights.)
Two weeks in, and he was helping Bilbo at the market, where he sunnily took a curious tailor up on an offer to make a lightweight Hobbit shirt and vest for him. “Farbeit for me to keep you from your craft!” he said cheerily. And then, when the fit was fine, “It’s definitely better suited to Shire summers,” and in only four days he had three more.
In the third week, he went to a party at Bilbo’s side because, “You’ll not be hiding at home after riddling a dragon and taming an entire party of dwarves!” He spent the entire time charming the locals with stories and songs that all seemed to star a certain Hobbit who seemed to be much more clever and politely deadly than Bilbo recalled actually being. Bofur vehemently denied taking any creative license, “certain stories are exciting as-is,” he insisted.
In the fourth week, he told Bilbo he needed a proper outdoor roaster "because all the neighbors built them while you were away," and Bofur’d be happy to make him one. “Dwarvish engineering with Hobbit sensibilities,” but it would take at least two weeks to design and set up out back. “I’ll need to see what some of your neighbors have” and would Bilbo mind having a guest just a bit longer than planned? (Bilbo hid more than a few laughs behind his hand as Bofur politely listened to a line of long-winded Hobbits showing off their outside roasters proudly and at length).
In the fifth week, Bilbo found him outside without his hat, braids sliding over both shoulders. “I was melting a bit, just don’t tell my nephews and nieces I took it off,” and, “It’s safely packed away for the return trip.”
By the sixth week, Bofur had abandoned his boots, wiggling his toes in the grass and grinning at the gaping stares his small, cute, hairless baby-feet garnered from all Bilbo’s neighbors.
The seventh week, Bilbo insisted Bofur learn to fish properly before he left, and one day of lessons became three when Bofur decided to teach Bilbo to season their catch the dwarf way. This was followed by a lesson on pie-making that Bofur so mastered in only four days that Elsa Proudfoot actually gave him a grudging “It’ll do” at the Cotton twins’ birthday party.
On the first day of the eighth week, Bofur’s bag was neatly packed on the guest room bed, his hat perched on the top and his boots leaning against the side. His new Hobbit-style shirts were peeking through the flap, his heavy dwarven coat rolled up tight beside his bedroll. But Bofur was nowhere to be seen, and Bilbo stared at the empty plate at the breakfast table and considered thousands of mornings just like this.
Bofur walked into the kitchen and cleared his throat.
In his hands was a wild bouquet of flowers. The messy assortment, tied off with a ribbon covered in geometric designs (clumsily stitched), wasn’t anything a Hobbit would present as-is, but the flowers were-
Bilbo stood up and walked around the table. He lifted one hand and touched the tightly bound petals of two bronze mums, traced the proud spray of gladiolus, leaned forward for the sweet scent of red roses. Then he cupped one ivy leaf in his hand, the plant awkwardly wound through the others (and the mum was a bit squashed).
He looked up at Bofur.
"Do you … know what these mean?" he asked, cautiously.
Bofur’s eyes were serious and laughing, all at once, and he said, “Aye, that I do.”
Bilbo grinned at him, a wide, Hobbity, warm thing, and he earned the same in return. “You might make a better Hobbit than a dwarf,” he said, and he pushed onto his toes to kiss that chuckling mouth.