Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Meals

When the Company left Hobbiton, Bilbo had been too afraid of being left behind to make a fuss about the rationing. And, anyway, it made sense that they would have to tighten their belts while travelling. While on walking holidays, Bilbo had rationed, before. Perhaps not so extremely, but why make a fuss about it?

In Imladris, the Dwarrow had been too distressed by the lack of meat to notice Bilbo polishing off his food, and even some of theirs. Naturally, when the Company stuck together and ate from their rations, no one thought that the hobbit wouldn’t want food. Finally, he’d felt full, and slept well. 

At Beorn’s house, the portions were so large, Bilbo was in heaven. He could eat to his heart’s delight, and although his status had been vastly improved thanks to his defence of Thorin, none of the Dwarrow noticed quite how much Bilbo ate. Only Beorn himself had made mention, laughing as he watched Bilbo gorge himself. 

Mirkwood had been the worst. First, they’d rationed for the trip, and then he’d been invisible. It should have made stealing easier, but the truth was, elves were sharp. It was only luck that the guards had gotten drunk on their feast day. While preparing for said feast; however, the kitchen was tightly guarded and Bilbo had barely eaten. He’d thought he might be better off giving himself up to the Elvin King than to starve to death—for surely that was the worst death possible, even though that damnable contract had said nothing about starvation as a form of death. The Dwarrow really did overlook the worst possible death—and, if he’d known that starvation was so likely, perhaps Bilbo would have rethought his decision to come. Perhaps, though likely not. 

Then, they arrived in Laketown, where Bilbo was under far too much scrutiny, and the proximity to the Mountain, well, Bilbo was not nerveless, and apparently, the prospect of facing a dragon was enough to knot his stomach. That, or maybe he had simply become too accustomed to a state of hunger. He wasn’t entirely certain. The days that followed had been bad. He’d confronted Smaug, then there had been the horrible waiting, and finally the battle. Understandably, food had been scarce, but Bilbo did not complain. 

________________________

Now, however, things were different. They had won the battle, and Thranduil had brought stores from Mirkwood. Even the Dwarrow accepted the Elvin King’s aid and so Bilbo knew that rations were no longer so tightly controlled. As a highly prized member of the Company, he’d been given chambers in the Mountain. To his joy, he had a fireplace and had been informed that it was quite serviceable—which was good because it was painfully cold. Heat, however, was an afterthought. Instead, he’d immediately gone to the food stores. As a member of said Company, no one questioned him when he demanded supplies—and he had demanded a lot. 

Alone in his room, Bilbo surveyed his handiwork with a smile. His fireplace now had metal racks that he’d cobbled together. Moreover, thanks to the lax guard, his room was now filled with groceries. His stomach growled in anticipation. Bilbo began to hum as he made his preparations. 

“We didn’t want to question him,” Thorin stared at the nervous guard. He was not alone, many of the Company were with him as they listened in disbelief to the man. Well, disbelief, and some nervousness. Why would their hobbit need so much food? Was something wrong? they wondered--the latter fear echoing in the King’s mind in particular. “Sire, he took enough rations to feed a family for nigh on a month!” 

“I will investigate,” Thorin finally said. The man, looking relieved, bowed low and departed. 

“What do you think that was about?” Fíli asked. 

“I have no idea,” Thorin replied truthfully. “Are there more?” he turned to Balin.

“Not today,” his advisor replied. 

“Let’s go to dinner, we can ask Bilbo about this matter there,” Thorin announced. Behind him, Fíli shot a look in his brother’s direction as they left the throne room, and catching on, the younger Durin departed to wrangle the rest of the Company. 

To their disappointment; however, Bilbo did not turn up for dinner. Still, they knew that he had enough food so they figured that their questions could wait until morning. Still tired and healing from their own wounds, the Company dispersed for an early night.

The next morning, most of the Dwarrow were not too worried when Bilbo failed to turn up to breakfast. While they were still quite curious about the matter it had been a long few days. He had looked rather wan, they reasoned so, perhaps, he was having a lie-in. When he did not come to lunch, even though they knew he had food, they began to worry in earnest. Burning with curiosity, Fíli and Kíli stopped by his room. From the corridor, they heard singing and sounds of life, and although tempted to knock, figured he just wanted to be left alone. The hobbit did not turn up to dinner either, but there was a minor attack on the outskirts of the camp, so most of the Company were not there to worry. 

In the morning, however, Bilbo was once more absent from breakfast, and the Dwarrow’s patience ran out. Their hobbit, they knew, was different from them, but this was abnormal according to all standards. They had to do something. 

Bilbo was halfway through second breakfast and contemplating which cake to have with elevensies when the racket began. There were a lot of footsteps, some shouting, and then a cacophony of banging on his door. Bilbo scowled, setting down his fork and knife with a melancholy look at his plate of sausages and eggs before he went to the door. He opened it, more gently than he had in Bag End, and found all thirteen Dwarrow on his doorstep.

“Are you okay?” Kíli demanded, his voice frantic with fright. 

“Why, yes,” Bilbo frowned. “I’m quite alright, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You haven’t come out for days!” Fíli protested.

“Has it been days?” Bilbo frowned. Without windows, it was hard to tell at times how much time had passed, but he had eaten a lot yesterday, and he was on breakfast again now. He had lost himself in his cooking, forgetting about the rest of the world. Guiltily, his eye caught on his pantry—or well, his bedroom-turned-pantry. 

“Yes,” Thorin replied, and Bilbo felt his stomach do some odd flip flop.

“Oh,” Bilbo managed. “But, please, come in! It’s a little late to make everyone a full second breakfast, but I’m certain no one would mind an early elevensies,” he eyed the clock. He’d had a lie in this morning, and it was close enough to eleven. 

The Dwarrow trooped in, their eyes going wide as they surveyed the food that Bilbo had prepared.

“Preparing for a feast?” Bofur asked in a friendly manner.

“No,” Bilbo frowned as he brought cakes, scones, breads, muffins, croissants, and danishes over. “Tea?” he asked, oblivious to their wide eyes.

“Is this what you’ve been doing for the past day?” Dori interrupted—unable to contain himself.

“Well, it’s just the basics, nothing all that fancy, but I know we have to wait until spring at least to have real trade routes,” Bilbo said as he put the kettle on. 

“What do you mean the basics?” Kíli frowned, a blueberry muffin in each hand—they really were divine.

“Well, you know, any elevensies ought to have a plate with pastries, and they can be re-used if necessary for first breakfast and even afternoon tea. Though sandwiches are better for afternoon tea I suppose,” Bilbo replied with a shrug. 

“Elevensies?”

“First breakfast?” 

“Afternoon tea?” multiple voices questioned at once.

“Why naturally, I mean, this really is almost as embarrassing as the dinner I had to serve you from my pantry,” Bilbo replied, pouring out the tea-kettle, so he missed the looks of incredulity on the Dwarrow’s faces.

“What was embarrassing about that?” Dwalin demanded.

“Well, it was just cold food and a bit of stew, nothing fancy, and not much food either,” Bilbo still felt the tips of his ears warning at the recollection. It was true that they’d emptied his pantry, but what else could be expected given that he had no real food to serve them? 

“And eating this much is normal?” Ori asked, almost timidly.

“Well, faunts may eat more, and pregnant women,” Bilbo replied. “I suppose too it depends a little on what you can afford, and what is in season,” he carried the first tray of tea over.

“So how many meals in total?” Ori asked, after Dori had placed an elbow in his side.

“Six, or even seven, whenever we can get them,” Bilbo replied, doctoring his cup and moving to find a place to sit, palming a few pastries on his way. “I typically favour the seven,” he admitted taking his seat.

“Meals a day?” Dori blurted.

“Well, I really didn’t need seven, but I had the time and resources to prepare the seven, so I usually had all seven,” Bilbo nodded. 

“We only eat three times, if that,” Ori said, his voice a little hollow as the realization struck.

“I know,” Bilbo replied before he could think of a more diplomatic response.

“So, you were starving yourself the whole time we were on the Quest?” Kíli asked, his eyes going wide.

“I mean,” Bilbo stammered, “well, we all tightened our belts.” 

“But we are used to doing that, you were never conditioned to do so,” Thorin interjected. Bilbo looked over to him and saw that the king was regarding him with an odd expression on his face.

“I was rather large at the start though, it wasn’t horrible for me to get back in shape.” Bilbo didn’t know why he was trying to justify the truth that Thorin had voiced. Even the notion of “getting in shape” was preposterous in the Shire—where the larger your middle the more respectable you were. Not to mention, the king had a point—Bilbo had starved on those first few days. It had been horrible, and he had thought that he would expire—but he’d been so desperate to gain acceptance he hadn’t said anything.

“It was my job to ensure the welfare of my Company. As your Leader, I was to guide and protect you, especially in cases when you could not do so for yourselves. In this endeavour, I failed you. For that, I can never apologize enough,” Thorin’s Durin-blue gaze locked with Bilbo’s. The hobbit felt his ears go red in embarrassment. Why he felt such an emotion, he was not certain.

Together, the Company had gone to hell and back together—they knew so much intimate information about each other from surviving and living together. Still, to have Thorin stand here and apologize to him? Bilbo felt the overwhelming desire to tell the King it was nothing—to insist that even being able to be a member of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company was a just exchange for the lack of food. Bilbo nearly fell to his knees to profess the truth, but then he came abruptly back to himself—and reality. 

“I mean, you couldn’t have known, you didn’t really know much about hobbits after all,” he said.

“You are right,” Thorin nodded thoughtfully. “And it is a fault that we must all beg your forgiveness for. We have overlooked many of your traditions, too caught up in our own mission.” Thorin moved closer, and Bilbo felt his heart flutter in his chest as he caught a whiff of Thorin’s scent. He had not been this close to the King since they had travelled together—the chairs in that damn council room set so far apart. 

“Wh-what?” Bilbo stammered, still looking up into Thorin’s face. It was a beautiful face, he thought, especially now that they all had access to plumbing, hygiene had gotten so much better. 

“Will you, Bilbo Baggins, do us the honour of explaining hobbit culture to us?” Thorin asked.

“Oh, well, of course,” Bilbo nodded, still stammering. 

“I would like that very much,” Thorin was still standing very close, and Bilbo fought the urge to reach out and take the king’s hand. “Erebor would be all the stronger if we were to establish a true partnership with the Shire and your people,” Thorin was continuing, and just like that Bilbo felt as though he’d once more fallen from the elves’ cellars into the icy river.

“Well, naturally, I would be happy to make the introductions,” Bilbo heard himself say, as he returned to his seat. He tried desperately not to hold on to the hurt, but it was unavoidable. He could not completely forget it.

“Will you tell us more now though?” Ori asked.

“About hobbit culture,” Kíli nodded. 

“Well, I suppose I ought to,” Bilbo nodded thoughtfully. “Concerning hobbits,” he sighed. “Where to begin?” he smiled at his audience—or most of it. He resigned not to look at the king again—for that was too dangerous.

As the hobbit launched into his story, he looked attentively at his audience. His gaze scanned the room though he pointedly ignored the King’s gaze. As a result, he was the only one who failed to notice the way that Thorin hung on to each and every word he spoke about meals, mead, and pipeweed. The hobbit had a lot to say on all of the topics and, as interesting as it all was, none of the Dwarrow were nearly as attentive as their King—whose lips quirked in a little smile, that even reached his eyes—not that the Hobbit saw. 

Chapter Text

Chopsticks  

Erebor had once been a kingdom most renowned for its trade. Whilst their treasures circled Middle Earth so too had goods from the far reaches of the world reached it. However, it had been some years since Erebor had been at its height—as the Company were coming to realize. After all, during the restoration of the Kingdom, not even Balin’s diplomacy could match the silver tongue of their Burglar. 

“I’m starting to see it,” Nori admitted one evening when their Burglar was once again absent. 

It was a rare time that Bilbo was late to a meal—but, the Company had learned that he was quite overexcitable where it came to speaking to traders. Apparently, their kitchens were quite lacking in ingredients and cuisines—and their Burglar was set upon reversing such a grievous error.

“See what?” Ori queried, looking up from his book with a frown.

“How he survived,” Nori replied, meeting the curious gazes of the rest of their Company.

“This wouldn’t be the first time we overestimated him,” Balin acknowledged with a thoughtful nod.

Bilbo himself was quite happy. Of course, family recipes were a prized secret, but Bilbo had been quite the charming faunt in his youth—and, perhaps Gandalf had a point when he’d suggested that Bilbo had a talent for theft. Still, it had only been a few recipes—here and there. Bilbo shook his head as he walked back up towards his rooms. It did not do to dwell on his irresponsible tweens, and he had won many a contest with his culinary skills. Now, the middle of February was fast approaching after all, and it simply would not do to fail to mark the coming of the spring with a true feast.

Since Erebor’s restoration, the Dwarrow often claimed that he was a veritable master in the kitchen, but he’d barely cooked at all. At first, the supplies were short and there was no kitchen. Then, things got so terribly busy that he was needed elsewhere—mainly, to keep Thorin calm while negotiating with the elves. Therefore, the feast that the Dwarrow spoke of was the dinner at Bag End before their Quest. 

That pitiful meal; however, had been nothing. Not really, a mere pittance compared to what he could create if given the warning and access to a full pantry. At that, Bilbo smiled again. A full pantry was exactly what he was cultivating, and wouldn’t this be a February to remember when his Dwarrow got a taste of what he would make for them. He would bet that even Bombur hadn’t tried what he was going to prepare for them—especially not since the dwarf hadn’t even known of pizza—and what a simple delight that was! Just wait until they had sushi or a spicy curry. 

Bilbo was still whistling to himself as he entered the room that the Company now gathered in for meals. It appeared that he was late, but one simply couldn’t rush the sampling of fish—especially not at the grade it had to be for what he was planning. 

“And there’s our Burglar, you’re late,” Thorin’s deep baritone froze Bilbo where he stood in the doorway to the room.

“Ah, erm, yes,” all of the diplomacy that Bilbo had used in his earlier conversation disappeared. He shuffled his feet nervously and then had to remind himself that he was no longer in his tweens, and such behaviour was not acceptable by any stretch of the imagination.

“And what has kept you?” Dwalin asked, fixing him with a suspicious glare—though Dwalin found everything suspicious these days.

“Oh, nothing, just a bit of trade,” Bilbo replied with a shrug. These Dwarrow might be the heroes of Erebor, but they were still the same Company who had appeared on his doorstep, and he would not stand at the edge of the doorway like some misbehaving faunt.

He entered the room, and took his customary seat by Fíli and Kíli, with a wink at the lads. They were not so young anymore, the Battle had aged all of them, but Bilbo was certain that his plan would gain a few smiles at least. After all, the Dwarrow still seemed to labour under the misbegotten theory that they were praising Bilbo’s culinary skills and ability to be a good host when they ‘raved’ about the feast at Bag End. Seriously, though they had very false understandings, if that was ever to be considered a feast. 

Bilbo sat and helped himself to food. He picked up the golden fork and frowned. Forks. They simply wouldn’t do. At least, not for all of the dishes that he planned to serve. He hesitated then—frowning his displeasure at the utensil.

“Is something wrong?” Fíli asked with a frown of his own. It was only then that Bilbo realized that the whole Company was peering at his fork—as though the gold was not up to grade, or the craftsmanship was too poor. 

“Wrong?” he repeated in a daze. “Oh, no, nonsense. Not at all, I was just thinking, well, haven’t you any chopsticks in Erebor?”

The answer that night had been a resounding ‘no,’ which was promptly followed by Orí’s question: “What is a chopstick?” 

Bilbo had no idea just how much of a stir that one comment would raise. However, the next time that he entered the hall it was to find no less than thirteen pairs of oddly matched sticks at his placemat—and that exact number of hopeful Dwarrow. 

From Fíli’s pure gold pair to Dwalin’s sacrifice of two throwing knives, the hobbit had to admit that there had never been a more special set of chopsticks. Therefore, it was all that he could do not to laugh when he beheld the assortment.

“Did you make me chopsticks?” he asked in mild surprise. 

This was hardly the first time that they had been so thoughtful, but it still meant the world to him that his Dwarrow would do such a thing just to see him smile.

His question only brought on a lot of shuffling. Bilbo sat down to his plate and made certain that he used each set—giving positive and negative feedback on each. Of course, some were better than others. For example, he’d nearly sliced off his tongue with the two knives, but he had praised their sharpness, and ability to cut through his food—though, that would make it hard to actually pick anything up.

At the end of the meal, the hobbit had left, his arms full of the chopsticks that he saw as a gift—while the Dwarrow all looked on. They were not to be stymied.

At dinner that night, Bilbo had found himself explaining at some length about the history and origin of the eating utensil—or, at least he had started with that. Their conversation; however, soon dissolved into one about how he had once helped a particularly brazen Took cousin to steal a whole set by smuggling them in her hair. Bilbo had found the story particularly funny. The Dwarrow, it would turn out, had taken it quite literally.

That was how Bilbo had found himself rolling on the floor of their dining hall in a fit of laughter. He laughed so hard, in fact, that his stomach hurt and tears flowed from his eyes. In retrospect, he would realize such behaviour would be highly inappropriate, but to see his Dwarrow seated there looking like hedgehogs was simply too much. They had, in their loving way, taken his story to heart, and the new fashion around the Mountain was to be chopsticks—but not the kind that Bilbo had thought of. Rather, the Dwarrow had taken the moral of his story to be that chopsticks were the ideal form of hair arrayment.

Since settling in Erebor, Bilbo’s travelling companions’ wealth and prestige had become evident. It was not only the wealth that they accrued since winning back the Mountain—the contract had been clear about that. However, it was also their bravery, and it gained them new ways in which they could display their prestige—such as in the way that they wore their braids. Their hairstyles, that had already seemed so elaborate to Bilbo had easily tripled in their complexity as each dwarf was proud to broadcast his various accomplishments in the way that any other Dwarrow could see by his braids. 

On this particular morning; however, Bilbo entered their dining hall to find that his Dwarrow had all crafted their own versions of chopsticks. Bifur, Bilbo was certain, as he passed the dwarf, had gone so far as to carve a replica of each of the Company into the stem of his chopsticks. Whereas Fíli’s golden mane was even more gilded with his addition of pure gold chopsticks. 

Bilbo really would swear he’d tried not to laugh, but then it had started, and he couldn’t stop it. Indeed, he was still on the floor when Thorin arrived. He took a single look at his Company and then added his loud baritone to the medley. It hadn’t taken long for the whole hall to be laughing. They had enjoyed that meal too, though Bilbo had apologized on numerous occasions for his appalling behaviour.

A month after the day when the chopstick hair decoration began Bilbo knew three things. First, that it was now all the rage to include chopsticks in one’s hair. Second, he had a feast to be proud of. For the last week, he’d sequestered himself—refusing entry to even Fíli and Kíli and Ori. In private, he’d laboured away, and they would all have a feast to be proud of. And, third, that because of the way that even Thorin now wore a chopstick in his majestic mane, Bilbo too would consider growing his hair—for, it really was too cute how they’d all rallied.

In the days leading up to his planned feast, he had painstakingly written invitations to his Dwarrow in his very best handwriting—and with the gold pen and ink that had been gifted to him. Unsurprisingly, they had all promised to be in their dining hall at the appointed time. Therefore, Bilbo had asked for the help of a few servants and began to serve his feast. 

Their eyes had gone wide as tray after tray of food was wheeled in. It was then that he felt ever so glad that he had his own kitchen in his apartment and a host of Dwarrow ready and willing to fetch him every ingredient he needed—even those fresh from the ships in what remained of Esgaroth. 

“I have for you, on this eve of mid-winter,” Bilbo proclaimed, “a feast to celebrate our life and our health, and the coming of spring in true hobbit fashion.” 

The Company had been very good about that too—incorporating hobbit traditions. Still, this particular event was Bilbo’s feast, and his chance to give some sort of a gift to the Dwarrow who had become his family. They all beamed at him and clapped and cheered.

“Now this,” Bilbo continued, “is a true feast, and what you ought to have been met within Hobbiton if a certain wizard had actually informed me of the Company I was to expect.” Bilbo sighed theatrically, “all the same, if you can forgive a poor hobbit for failing to properly host you the first time, perhaps a fraction of this will allow me the chance to make it up to you.” They all laughed at that—for Bilbo had truly done so much more for them than any feast, even his own, could ever speak for. 

Without further ado, however, Bilbo began directing his servers. The feast had too many courses to count; however, the sushi was exquisite—and, finally, the Dwarrow understood Bilbo’s own dismay at the lack of chopsticks. For this occasion, Bilbo had secured black wooden chopsticks that worked beautifully—or had looked so until they began snapping in the Dwarrow’s strong hands. He had fretted; however, for only a minute, before chopsticks began to be removed from elaborate hair—the Company had all dressed especially formally for the event—and then the sushi eating resumed. Bilbo tactfully chose not to say anything when some rolls were devoured using hands, instead of any utensil. The art of the chopstick, he deigned, could be learned later if it had to be. 

Overall too, the meal was a huge success—a feast for any hobbit to be proud of. The Dwarrow too felt particularly special for the way in which their hobbit had shared another of his traditions with him. None, however, was more pleased than a certain leader of the Company, and it was not lost on any of them when the hobbit in question received a fourteenth set of chopsticks—this pair made of mithril. They sat simply on his napkin on the morning after the feast—despite it having been only a few hours since they all parted. 

Delicately, the hobbit took up his utensils, and ate his breakfast, a small smile on his lips, and the faintest of blushes in his cheeks whilst his King tried desperately not to yawn and consumed more coffee than food—a satisfied smirk resting on his own features.