Chapter Text
Bilbo was content with his little booth in Hobbiton’s central market. Made of a sturdy cherry wood, it was stocked with an assortment of homemade (and home-grown) treats. Blueberry jams, apple tarts, raspberry scones, fruits, and vegetables galore. His father had been the one to start the family business, Bag End, and Bilbo took great satisfaction in continuing what his father established. He was even proud to say that the contributions he made to the shop—freshly baked goods and sweet berry jams—made Bag End even more popular than it had been under Bungo’s management.
His mother never really wanted this life for him. Belladonna once entertained grand dreams of sending Bilbo off to study with the Elves or even to the cavernous halls of one of the Dwarven kingdoms. As a child, Bilbo shared in his mother’s visions of his future—he imagined himself exploring deep woods, vast libraries, and gem-encrusted mines. But as he grew older and the Tookish exploration gave way for the Baggins sensibility, Bilbo recognized that that sort of life would only bring trouble. So he set those childish dreams aside and began working in the shop with his father.
Late at night, however, Bilbo sometimes wondered what might have happened had he followed the other, less certain path.
While Hobbiton may not offer wares as grand or exotic as one might find in the Elven markets or even the city of Dale, their wholesome crop was nothing to shake a fist at. Dwarrow, Elves, and Men alike came from all over to acquire the freshest produce from this side of the Misty Mountains. Well, Men came. Elves and Dwarrow were less common, but plentiful enough in certain seasons. Mostly, the Shire simply sent out shipments of goods to the respective kingdoms, should they have interest.
Bag End jams were revered across Middle Earth and in constant demand. Bilbo could hardly keep up with the orders, but he delighted in knowing that his mother’s recipes were so highly regarded. Hamfast, bless the young lad, took very good care of the expansive bushels, orchards, and vegetable beds nestled behind Bag End (residence, not shop—his father was not the most creative of Hobbits and the differentiation still bungled in Bilbo’s head even after so many years). Of course, much effort went into protecting said crops from those dreadful Sackville-Bagginses, who were determined to get their hands on Bilbo’s award-winning strawberries. What they failed to realize was that the quality of the ingredients only went so far when your recipes were utter garbage.
Today had been rather slow in terms of business. Lily Cotton stopped by just after opening for a chat and a free sample of Bilbo’s freshly made pumpkin muffins. By mid-morning, the only Hobbits to visit his shop were his little cousin Primula and her mother. After listening to Prim prattle incoherently about his other cousin, Drogo Baggins, for quite a while, her mother dragged her away with a cheerful invitation to elevensies sometime next week. And that was the early afternoon.
Once all the bustle of family and friends passed (after taking most of the free samples and purchasing very little, Bilbo noted sardonically), the rest of the afternoon was looking quite dull. He contemplated taking inventory and shutting down for the day when the loudest commotion he ever heard erupted at the end of the market.
“I told you he was allergic, you blockhead!”
“Well, how was I supposed to know those had cinnamon in them? It’s an awfully specific allergy if you ask me. Cinnamon’s in practically everything!”
Peeking out into the main road, Bilbo could just make out a small group clustered around a figure crouched in the dirt. From the awful hacking noises he could barely hear over all the cursing and shouting, Bilbo surmised that this was the individual with the unfortunate cinnamon allergy.
It really was in almost everything, Bilbo thought to himself as he grabbed the nearest skin of water. Hobbits were rather fond of the spice, especially during this time of year.
Making his way over as quickly as he could without running, as grown Hobbits simply do not run, Bilbo took stock of the situation. A poor Bracegirdle lass was nearly in tears, doing her best to help but ultimately getting in the way with her nervous fluttering. On his knees by the side of the road, a slight figure—a Dwarf, from the looks of him—clutched at his throat as he hacked violently into the bushes. The rest of the group, also Dwarrow, stood around shouting at one another, but doing nothing helpful or productive whatsoever. With a huff, Bilbo barged his way through the thick of them and crouched down next to the choking Dwarf, careful not to sully his trousers.
“Here you are,” he said, handing over the waterskin. “It’s best to just flush it all out before you become even more ill. Go on and gargle, will you?”
The young fellow—for he really did look quite young—shot him a grateful look through watery eyes and quickly snatched the water away. After a few large gargles and swallows, the Dwarf managed to stop vomiting and sat in front of the sick-covered mulberry bushes. The others, finally quiet, rushed to pat him on the back and check him over.
“You alright, Ori? Chuck it all up?”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know!”
“Didn’ ask neither, did you, blasted idiot.”
“Hey, leave off! Kíli didn’t mean any harm.”
“Well, he never does, does he? But he manages all the same.”
The Dwarrow resumed their loud bickering, completely blocking out everything else, so Bilbo took the opportunity to slip back to the shop. He could see that the Bracegirdle shopkeep had already done the same, hiding her flaming cheeks behind the till.
Bilbo gave into the urge to close the shop for the afternoon. He was in the midst of taking inventory when a sharp rap echoed from the counter. Two Dwarrow stood in front of his stand, wearing identical grins and peering about the shop with interest.
“Hello!” chirped the one on the right.
The lad sported a face full of scruff and a long tangle of dark hair in need of a good scrub and a thorough combing. His brown eyes danced wickedly and Bilbo suddenly had the urge to tell him that the shop was closed, sorry, come back another time, thank you and good day.
“Yes, may I help you Mister…?”
“Kíli,” the Dwarf supplied with a bob of his head and rested his arms on the counter. “At your service.”
“Mister Kíli,” Bilbo finished dryly, mentally cataloguing which of his wares contained cinnamon or any other known allergens.
“We just wanted to thank you for your help,” the other Dwarf chimed in, picking up a chunk of pumpkin muffin and popping it in his mouth. The clasps at the end of his impressively braided moustache glittered as he chewed.
Where his companion was dark, this one was fair. The Dwarf had a long mane of bright golden hair intricately braided and well-kept. His beard was rather short, but neatly trimmed and Bilbo had to wonder how his friend managed to be so filthy when this fellow looked so sharp.
For a Dwarf, anyway.
His blue eyes twinkled in an eerily similar manner. Bilbo knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that these two spelled trouble. And maybe mayhem for good measure.
“I could hardly leave the poor soul to asphyxiate on the side of the road, now could I?” he asked, whacking at Kíli’s hands as they reached to take the entire basket of free samples. The Dwarf jerked his fingers back with a pout, shaking them to remove the sting. “One sample per customer, if you please.”
“But these are really good,” Kíli whined. “I can’t just have one!”
“Then you’ll have to buy some,” Bilbo retorted firmly. “I am running a business here, after all, not a charity for rogue Dwarrow in need of a good wash.”
Kíli scowled but dutifully rummaged through the pockets of his surprisingly clean overcoat. He checked each and every one, inside and out, his face becoming increasingly harried with each empty pocket he encountered. Finally giving up, he turned a bright grin on his companion.
“Fíli,” he crooned, widening his eyes innocently. “I don’t suppose you have any cash to spare for a treat or six?”
Brothers, then, Bilbo decided as he watched the two squabble over money. While he could be forgiven for overlooking the slight resemblance, it really was quite obvious when one simply observed the young Dwarrow.
“Alright,” Fíli grumbled, taking out a rather fat money pouch as his brother’s face lit up. “But just a few. Uncle sent us out for very specific supplies.”
Kíli just nodded eagerly. Bilbo doubted he heard anything that just came out of his brother’s mouth.
They eventually decided on two pumpkin muffins and raspberry scones apiece, along with a small pot of the strawberry jam. Bilbo left them to enjoy their purchases as he counted and stored the money. Just as he closed the till, Fíli made a sound that would have had any proper Hobbit blushing from the tips of his ears down to the curly hair on his feet. The Dwarf stared at the scone in his hand like a man crazed. A spot of strawberry jam smudged his cheek and crumbs littered his moustache and beard.
“I changed my mind,” he said suddenly. His eyes looked rather manic and Bilbo nervously checked about the booth for something to defend himself should the lad decide to viciously murder him.
Fíli slammed his money pouch on the counter, spilling golden coins left and right, and leaned uncomfortably close into Bilbo’s space. “Give us all the jam you’ve got,” he demanded fiercely.
Bilbo wondered if he should alert the authorities.
“But I thought you said—”
“Forget what I said! This is like liquid gold in my mouth. Uncle will understand.”
Kíli looked rather unconvinced underneath the smears of jam all over his dirty face.
“I-I’m sorry?” Bilbo finally managed to stammer.
“The jam,” Fíli repeated. “All of it.”
“And the treats!” Kíli added, gripping the counter. “Don’t forget the muffins!”
It seemed as if Kíli wasn’t really concerned with his Uncle’s requests after all.
“You cannot be serious,” Bilbo cried.
“Don’t question a Dwarf on a mission for good food, Master Hobbit,” Fíli said. “We’re deadly serious.”
“Utterly.”
“So, if you’d please—”
“—box up all the goods—”
“—and accept our payment!”
“We’d greatly appreciate it,” they finished.
Kneading his forehead with his fingertips, Bilbo struggled for composure. These two dunderheads would clean him out of his entire stock, save the fruits and vegetables, for an entire month. While this would make for a good holiday, such a long time away from the stand could hurt his business and give Lobelia just the opening to steal all his customers. It just wasn’t something he was willing to risk.
Prepared to refuse, Bilbo looked up and was faced with the two most pathetic expressions of naked longing that he caved almost instantly.
I’m due for a bit of time off anyway, he rationalized. And I can always take this opportunity to finish tweaking with Mother’s old raspberry-walnut tart recipe.
“Alright,” Bilbo sighed. “Will you be carrying all this, then? Or do you have a cart?”
“Oh.” Kíli scratched his cheek, looking pensive. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Shocking,” Bilbo muttered.
He began collecting the jam off the shelves and lining the jars neatly in the crates he kept beneath the counter for large purchases. After ensuring all the fragile containers were safely packed with straw, Bilbo wrapped the perishables in rolls of cloth and tucked them into another crate. Fíli waited patiently before the stand, fiddling with the ties of his money pouch, while his brother presumably went in search of something to lug it all away. Once Bilbo was sure everything was packed away in proper order, he emptied the contents of Fíli’s wallet and assessed how much the lad could reasonably afford.
More than enough, apparently. The pouch contained a heap of golden coins, all embossed with the royal crest of Erebor, and a great deal of silver as well. Ordinarily Hobbits had little use for such wealth. Those that stopped by Bag End usually bartered for goods with services or items of equal value. Bilbo accepted all forms of currency—within reason, of course—but he was just as likely to accept a good side of ham as a handful of coin. So, faced with the sheer quantity of gold in Fíli’s bag, he found he was rather out of his depth. Making an executive decision, Bilbo swept a good majority of Fíli’s gold back into its velvet (velvet!) pouch and simply took fifteen gold pieces and ten silver pieces for the lot. He knew he was severely undervaluing the price of his wares—they were cleaning him out of almost sixty jars of jam and at least three-dozen muffins, at least—but Bilbo found he could be generous. The two Dwarrow seemed like a good sort, and he noticed the slight strain on Fíli’s face as Bilbo counted out his money.
This way, the boys could have their prizes and still satisfy their uncle with enough gold to spare. And Bilbo got an unexpected holiday.
Everyone wins, he thought.
Fíli’s brow furrowed as he watched the Hobbit write out his receipt. “That’s not nearly enough for all of this,” he said.
“Yes, well, it’s not often I receive visitors all the way from Erebor,” Bilbo replied. “Consider it a…special discount.”
“We don’t need charity,” Fíli bit out heatedly. “Or special treatment. Not when we have the means to pay.”
“Now see here.” Bilbo set down his quill and placed his hands on his hips, giving the young Dwarf a level stare. “This is my business and as such only I decide who and who will not receive ‘special treatment’. Do you want the jam, or don’t you?”
“Of course we do!” Kíli cried, looking distraught. Behind him was a tiny wheelbarrow Bilbo suspected he nicked from one of his neighbors. “If Fíli says we don’t, ignore him! He’s absolutely barmy sometimes.”
“He’s undercharging us,” his brother told him. “Even though we can well afford it.”
Kíli seemed confused. “And this is a problem because…?”
“Because accepting such a low price would be an insult against the quality of the Hobbit’s wares as well as our ability to pay for it,” Fíli explained sourly and shook his head. “No Dwarf with even a scrap of honor would accept such a deal.”
Kíli fell silent with a contemplative look on his face. Bibo sighed loudly, tapping his foot in frustration.
“Oh confound the stubbornness of such bull-headed Dwarrow! If you will not simply take the discount, consider it then a…favor, of sorts. Repay me as you see fit—or don’t! I care very little, just take the jam and go before I refuse to sell it at all!”
Fíli brightened instantly. “Well, a favor is another thing entirely!” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “We always return a favor.”
“Of course,” Kíli said with a grin. “Our sincerest thanks, Master Boggins!”
“Wait, how did you— Never mind, never mind! Would you kindly collect your purchases and go?” Bilbo scowled. “And it’s Baggins, not Boggins. Bilbo Baggins.”
Both simply shrugged and quickly loaded up the wheelbarrow with the many crates of goods. They left as suddenly as they came and Bilbo felt as though he had aged another thirty years. Looking about at his threadbare shelves, he finally felt justified in closing the shop.
After he took inventory. Again.