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Chapter Text

“It’s quite perilous, you know,” Bungo says between puffs of Longbottom Leaf where he sits on the bench on the front porch, back ramrod straight. 

“Hm?” Bilbo doesn’t look up from the book he’s been reading, stretched out on his belly on the grass at his father’s feet. In his head, he’s walking the ancient roads that have been splintered by the sundering of the world. It’s a sober account of trading routes and the geography of Eastern Beleriand, but Bilbo soaks it up as though it is a thrilling novel of adventure and peril.

“Leaving your home, leaving the Shire even. One wrong step and you could end up lost forever and ever. There are crevices in Middle-Earth none who yet live know of. Monsters in the depths we do not dare put in bedtime stories for the horrors they would bring. One should stick to their mapped routes and always have a watchful eye. Two, if they can be spared. Bilbo, are you listening to me?” He wags the end of his pipe in Bilbo’s direction when Bilbo glances at him. 

“It’s dangerous business,” Belladonna agrees with that velvety voice of hers as she emerges from Bag End. Her apron is stained, and little bursts of flour flakes speckle her cheeks. A spark of mischief glints in her eyes and she reaches up to loosen the knot tying her hair back. Bilbo cranes his neck to get a better view of her ginger curls, her all-knowing smile. Belladonna Took is the most beautiful hobbit lass there has ever been and Bilbo will fight anyone who disagrees. Not that there are those who do. 

“What is?” Bilbo asks and smiles when she flops down on the grass next to him, rolls onto her back, and heaves a pleased sigh. 

“Listening to a Baggins for an extended period of time. They will plant cautionary tales in your head and then stuff your ears with cotton so your mind will soon be drowning in anxieties, only to be cured with routine and propriety.” Belladonna throws Bilbo a wink and Bilbo giggles into the pages of his book. He would never openly defy his father, not the way his mother does. He loves Bungo for his uptightness, as much as he loves Belladonna for being aloof and strange. But the tug of war within him is decidedly going in favour of one side and it is not that of Bilbo Baggins, a glutton for books, seven meals a day, his mother’s kisses and his fathers favoured pipeweed. He is a Took. He has chaos and shenanigans carved into his bones, and wanderlust embedded in his muscles, and with each day that passes, inching towards his departure, he gets more twitchy, unsettled, ready. 

“Uncultured heathens, both of you,” Bungo says, but it is in good humour. His solemnity is quick to return though. “Do you have to go?” There is a plea somewhere tucked between his words and it grips Bilbo’s heart with an icy claw. 

“We have been through this. Let him have his adventure and be grateful he’s willing to take your suggestions,” Belladonna says and her hand on Bilbo’s shoulder melts the ice in a heartbeat.

“Thanks,” he says under his breath. 

“Do not assume I am happy to let you go either,” Belladonna replies. “I just see the necessity of it. And I trust you to come back in one piece. You’re not my little squirrel for nothing.” 

“I promise.”

---

Pure excitement - like the giddy bursts of a high from a piece of great-aunt Pansy’s honey cake - carries Bilbo out the door and all the way to the borders of elven territory. His steps bounce even with the great weight he carries with him, his heart is full, he is so very eager to finally see the world that he hardly has a mind for all the hobbit-y comforts he thought he would miss so dearly. He consults his map, and frequently, as frequently as he adjusts the straps of his backpack, almost taller than he is. 

It is stuffed with more than just travel essentials and Belladonna’s selection of pickled vegetables, jerky, and hard cheeses from the Bunce’s dairy farm. Every nook and cranny is filled with sacks of seeds, from the simplest of wildflower bundles - daisies, poppies, cornflowers - to the Gamgee’s most prized pumpkin selection. In an additional burlap sack, Bilbo carries apple tree saplings, all three types the Shire has to offer 

His quest is a simple one: 

Travel to Erebor, trade these seeds and saplings for exotic, preferably more durable ones to enrich the flora of the Shire - and specifically the Baggins-Gamgee monopoly on arable crops - and return once the entirety of his stock is exchanged. 

And while, indeed, this is the task of a simple errand boy, Bilbo can’t help but feel grand and important. It is a pretense under which he can finally set out and see the world. 

He marvels at the forests that mark the Shire border, sectioning off Maggot senior’s cornfields from the world at large. He spends a long night exploring Weathertop and smoking pipeweed under the shelter of its history-leaking ruin, and meanders left and right after which slows his progress, but feeds into his greed. The brushes and trees nearer the Misty Mountains are not so different from the ones he knows from home, sparser perhaps, sturdier and with weeds sprouting from every fissure in ground and rock, something no respectable hobbit would allow, and it is a lot to take in and it is not enough. Bilbo adjusts his straps once more, and he pushes on. 

---

“Wither to?” the elves of Imladris ask him in that ethereal, wistful way of theirs as they serve him fine wines and berry-riddled salads under a fat, yellowing moon. 

“Ever eastward,” Bilbo replies after he has thanked his tongue raw. He wants to continue right away, but is wise enough to heed his hosts’ invitation to stay the night. Sleep off the alcohol his poor little heart isn’t used to, not with how strong its notes ring through his body. It makes him more than antsy, makes him feel like he has to run, run, run. “To Erebor.”

“And pray tell,” Elrond inquires with a quirk of his glittering brow. He is the lord of the house and the most elegant, eloquent creature Bilbo has ever met. “What does a young halfling look for amongst dwarven-kind? Do you not love all that grows and blossoms?” 

“We do and that is precisely why I’m going. My father instructed me to trade in plantlife to enhance our gardens and strengthen our crops.” 

“An important excursion,” Elrond admits with a gentle smile. He raises his goblet for another silent toast and Bilbo, well-mannered but already quite out of his depth, clinks his against it, dealing himself the fatal blow by emptying in one draft. He punches his own sternum through a series of hiccups and burps indiscreetly. 

“Quite.”

“Be that as it may, feel free to enjoy the vale’s hospitality for as long as it pleases. You have quite a journey ahead of you, young one. Do not overestimate your own endurance. 

Pish-tosh, Bilbo thinks and offers up an amiable smile. He has more endurance than any hobbit, nay, any living creature in history. And if he is the only person to believe in himself then that suffices. 

---

Bilbo dreams of rushing water that takes the shape of animals. Horses and bears, foxes and geese. He dreams of a flock of swans that soar over his head, gems raining from their wings and covering Middle-Earth under their brightness. He dreams of his father riding a boar through the streets of Hobbiton, screaming at Bilbo not to delay. 

Bilbo sets out ere the sun rises, bids Lord Elrond farewell via a hastily scrawled note he deposits on the silken sheets he slept in. 

---

It does not suffice. Lord Elrond’s warning comes back to Bilbo with an acute stab of regret as he descends the last slopes of the Misty Mountains with barely half the usual sleep under his belt. His feet ache from the constant assault of sharp rock he’s been treading on and the somersaulting vertigo of the elven wine never quite left him. All of that to say, he is tired and he yearns for the soft caress of those sheets, can still feel their lavender scent cling to his nostrils. As night falls and the rolling plains of stone turn into high grass that buzzes with the concert of early summer insect hordes, Bilbo seeks out a nearby cluster of trees to take refuge under. He has never slept in the cradle of branches before, but he doesn’t want to risk more bug bites than strictly necessary, especially as his father warned him of a long list of potential allergies that run through the Bagginses with the same viciously thick thread as their sweet tooth. Belladonna rolled her eyes at this, a fact that gives Bilbo a minimal amount of comfort as he uses the ropes on his pack to strap himself to the tree’s lower levels. 

He is woken by the nagging whir of mosquitoes about a dozen times before he finally falls into an uneasy slumber that lasts well into the next day. He hoped to make it to the borders of King Thranduil’s famed realm today - famed mostly for producing even stronger wine and being full of mystical traps and long-lost creatures - but at this rate, Bilbo will consider himself lucky if he breaches Greenwood’s treeline at all. He is tired and cantankerous, and the pleasure he felt upon setting out really did carry the fleetingness of a good piece of cake. Woefully, there isn’t a bakery for miles and miles around, let alone a trace of great-aunt Pansy. Bilbo brews himself a cup of sweetened tea over a crackling fire, has a bigger breakfast than he should reasonably allow himself and continues his long walk as the sun is already descending. 

He still wants to see, still wants to know. But he finds he would very much like to do so with the prospect of a warm bed at the end of the day. 

You are beginning to sound like your father, Belladonna’s voice teases him and Bilbo flushes furiously. He is not his father, nor is he like his snoozy aunts and uncles, and he most certainly shares no similarities with his inflexible grandfather Mungo. He is a Took as well as a Baggins. That, he keeps telling himself as he snaps his suspenders and marches on.

“A Took as well as a Baggins,” he murmurs, dodging away from a school of ravens that fly overhead. 

“A Took as well as a Baggins,” he says as he begins to count the trees that draw nearer, old and crooked, emanating magic so thickly Bilbo’s nose itches. 

“A Took as well as a Baggins,” he sing-songs, chasing bumblebees, chasing the bursting pinks and oranges of sunset. 

And that mantra, a manifestation of his new-found determination, the sheer will to make his mother proud, carries him all the way to the other side of the Greenwood and to the shores of the Long Lake where he happens upon a tan, dark-haired man in a long leather overcoat. More than a man, his gently rocking barge presents a solution to Bilbo’s most pressing problem: cross the lake without having to take the long hike around it.

“Hello,” Bilbo says as he approaches the man, hoping he doesn’t look nearly as wretched and tired as he feels. The feeling in his feet disappeared somewhere around the same time he passed by the gates of Thranduil’s halls. His clothes are dirty and smell like dirt and sweat and misery, his curls have become matted and sticky as his soap ran out days ago. Sleep has been a tricky travelling companion, elusive and slippery and Bilbo hasn’t had a hot meal in too long. But all that can be fixed once he arrives. “Good morning.” 

The man is loading barrels onto the boat and hums a merry tune under his breath. A constant smile, like a persistent strawberry stain, graces his features as he goes about his work and he only glances up briefly as Bilbo comes to a halt before him.

“I should think so,” he says. “Although you should not discount the possibility of hail later.” 

“Hail?” Bilbo cries out, incredulous. 

“We call it the curse of Erebor around Dale, the unpredictable weather patterns. Been like that ever since the dragon attacked.  Best not to mention it around the dwarves though, they are touchy about the subject.”

“DRAGON?”

“What’s your name?” the man asks and deposits the last barrel onto his boat, then stretches out his hand. His fingers are calloused against Bilbo’s and the wool of his fingerless mittens is scratchy.

“Bilbo… Baggins.” Bilbo’s nostrils flare and he tries to cover the horror he feels with a tight-lipped smile. 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Baggins. Call me Bard.” 

“Bard the Bargeman?” It slips out before Bilbo can stop himself, a welcome distraction to the fact that he has run straight into peril’s welcoming embrace. Hailstorms and dragons? 

Adventure, Bilbo. This is an adventure. 

“Amongst others,” Bard says lightly and lets go of Bilbo’s hand. “You look a little green around the nose. I don’t have anything stronger than cold tea on me, bless my oldest, but I can offer you… no? Well, I wouldn’t want to impose nor pry, but what brings you here?” 

“My… uh… my father sent me. To trade in seeds and plant life.”

“Indeed? And yet, the Greenwood is behind you.” 

“I’m headed to Erebor,” Bilbo explains hastily and retrieves his pouch of coins from his pockets. “Which is my reason for approaching you in the first place. Would it be possible to book passage on your humble barge?” 

“Of course. Tell you what, you can join me free of charge if you tell me about your journey. It’s been half a decade since I have left this part of Middle-Earth.”

“I would be most delighted,” Bilbo replies. 

Bard proves a pleasant companion for the journey across the lake and though Bilbo is queasy when he steps onto the boat, the view quickly washes away that feeling. He speaks to Bard of his father’s intentions and the road behind him, but his eyes remain transfixed by the solitary peak that climbs ever higher to the skies the closer they come. 

“It seems unlike Thranduil to wave you through his realm without offering at least the most basic of courtesies,” Bard says when Bilbo relays how the clipped tone of the noble Elf that received him made him feel unwelcome and it was quite the contrast to his experience in Rivendell, resulting in his traveling through the realm without pause for so much as a snack. Not a hidden trap, nor a thick magic, but the simple disdain of the wood-elves. 

“From what I gathered, it was not Thranduil himself I talked to, but his son.”

“Ah. It is not my place to excuse Legolas’ behaviour, but I am sorry nonetheless. He is… complicated. Lost after his mother’s early passing and scarred by the constant state of passive warfare.”

“Warfare?” 

“Look, Mr. Baggins… I do not know what on Arda prompted you to come here of all places nor what your father told you when you set out. But this is not a peaceful place and I would advise you to rent lodgings outside of Erebor. Dale is as neutral as the ground can get around here. I have a friend that rents out rooms, I can introduce you if you like,” Bard says, pensive as his gaze also finds Erebor. They are coming up on Dale’s little port and from this distance, Bilbo can make out the massive statues that flank the Lonely Mountain’s gate. The clamour of the city at its roots  - laughter, the rattling of carts, shouts, barks - is muted by the tapestry of clouds that have woven together overhead.

“That is kind of you,” Bilbo says, distracted. 

“You caught me on a good day,” Bard says and claps Bilbo on the back before concentrating on steering the vessel safely into its predestined slot. 

A hundred questions form a cyclone in Bilbo’s head, threatening to rip the wood out from underneath him. What dragon? When did it attack? How big do the hail corns get around here? And what is that about war? Sure, Bard wears a blade at his hip, a finely crafted one as far as Bilbo can tell, and yes, there are guards patrolling Dale’s port, the wood-elves were all armoured and armed, but there is no sign of skirmishing. No pillars of smoke nor lingering fire as all accounts Bilbo has read of war would suggest. 

No, the mostly peaceful, if a little drab, sight of Dale before him, the mountain looming overhead, suggests nothing of the sort. Bilbo has arrived. He has finally arrived. He is here. He snuffs out all those nasty little uncertainties and steps off the barge with freshened resolve. He has a mission and everything outside of it is of no concern to him. 

---

Bard’s acquaintance turns out to be a kindly old woman with fewer teeth than fingers, but twice the twinkle in her eyes to make up for it. Her name is Marie and she ushers Bilbo into her house and points him to a room on the second floor without even asking what he is doing on her doorstep. 

“My old bones won’t carry me up the stairs any longer and ever since my Everik died I have been so dreadfully lonely. It’ll be good to have company,” she says. 

“The rent-” 

“Be a good lad,” she interrupts and claps him on the behind to get him into motion, up the stairs that creak under Bilbo’s feet. “And help an old woman with her housework. Sweeping the floors and the streets, doing the shopping, some such. That’s all I require from you. Oh, but you smell like you spent the last month in a ditch. I will get a fire going so you can have a bath and get settled in properly.” 

“I insist on paying,” Bilbo protests. He glances back to the doorway where Bard leans with an arm against the frame and a knowing smile on his lips. 

“She’s great, isn’t she?” he mouths and Bilbo flinches at another clap. He glares at Bard, then scurries up the stairs to escape another onslaught, swaying left and right as the great weight of his backpack resists the quick movement. 

“It’s to the left,” Marie calls after him and Bilbo murmurs an affirmation as he heads for that door, ignoring the one on the other side of the sparsely decorated hallway. His room is nothing like the one he occupies back in Bag End. It has a rickety-looking desk and a stool that reaches up to Bilbo’s navel beside it. The bed is short for human standards, long enough for Bilbo and the frame looks to be made from discoloured sandstone, the linens on it grey, fraying at the edges. There is a nightstand with a potted plant that has seen better days and the curtains flutter in the cool breeze that has started to waft through Dale in the last hour or so. Bilbo forces his teeth to stop chattering and sets down his pack.

He’s cold and tired. He wants that bath. He wants Aunt Pansy’s honey cake and Belladonna’s kisses and Bungo’s wise words. 

“Warmth,” he says. “Food. Sleep.” 

Tomorrow will paint the world brighter, replenishing his excitement. It has to.

Chapter Text

Bilbo wakes to a pattering drizzle and his curtains billowing. The light suggests it is night still, but the bustle outside the house and the way Marie calls up for breakfast tell a different story. At least he managed to sleep through the night. In his jacket and under two sets of blankets, his toes numb and his breath stilted by a runny nose, but sleep is sleep. It is not the fresh beginning he would have wanted for himself, but it is a beginning nonetheless. And so he resolves to treat the day with optimism.

He gets up and dresses in his best clothes, exchanging his dirt-stained green suspenders for a set of fresh brown ones, and puts his red brocade vest over his least crinkled shirt. He unpacks the rest of his clothes, his cooking supplies and toiletries and stuffs the burlap sack with the saplings into his backpack. All his inventory on his shoulders once more. Before he sets out, Marie demands that he have some honey-sweetened porridge into which she sprinkles a handful of nuts Bilbo doubts she can afford to share with him. He promises to bring her back fresh fish for dinner and sets out for Erebor wrapped in Everik’s old fur-lined coat which she has pinned up to accommodate for his height. She is altogether too kind for an old woman housing a stranger and Bilbo’s brain is already rattling with thoughts on how to make it up to her. If he can make it up to her. By the time his feet hit the stone of the small bridge that leads up to Erebor’s gate, Bilbo is resolved to dust off his old knitting skills and see Marie warmly through the winter. It is something to do while he waits for customers in the little shop he decided to open up. 

What better way to get the business of trading these plants going than to rent a small space in the heart of Erebor and have people come to him? It’ll be easy, painless, and quick. Exactly how Bilbo has come to like his adventures. When he approaches one of the dwarves standing guard with a friendly greeting, there is no reaction, however.

“Hello?” Bilbo asks and waves his hand in front of the guard's face. He doesn’t react, doesn’t even grunt. Nor does the other when Bilbo tries the same trick. The two dwarves are as stoic as the statues that tower to either side, stout and proud warriors that Bilbo has no doubt will defend Erebor to their last breath. From dragons or elves or even - Valar forbid - orcs. Hopefully not from innocent hobbits that really just want to accomplish the task their father set out for them. “Uhm, excuse me?”

“Don’t mind these two,” a booming voice says, preceding a third dwarf that emerges from the gates. He is young with little ornaments to his moustache that make its tip look like horns of a great boar while his chin is clean-shaven. The thin stripe of hair running along the midline of his skull carries the same ginger undertones as his beard. More than that, he wears a clunky, black circlet over his thick brow and a signet ring on his left forefinger. He doesn’t match the description of King Thrór that Bard gave him, but he has to be a member of the royal family, especially with how he bears himself.

“Your grace,” Bilbo says tentatively and gives a bow. “Bilbo Baggins is my name, I am at your service.”

“Pah,” the dwarf says with a jovial chuckle. “Pah. No one has called me graceful since I was a wee lad and me mom was still around and even she did it because she thought me self-confidence was fragile. Wouldn’t speak, ye see.”

“I do see,” Bilbo replies. He straightens up again and smiles, mouth running away with it. “Alas, allow me to compliment the regal figure you make. As I have found in my travels, grace is not a way of movement, it is an attitude you most certainly convey.”

“Yer a funny little fella. Quite the charmer. The name’s Dáin, by the way, if ye ever get tired of the ol’ honey-around-the-beard tactic. Not that I mind. At any rate, ye will not receive much aid from these two troll-faced bastards. What wretched purpose has washed ye up on our doorstep?”

“Nothing wretched, I assure you. I have ventured here looking to set-up shop and trade wares. Seeds and saplings, specifically.”

“Seeds and saplings, is that right? Not sure if that is exactly lucrative, but if yer set on trying who am I to deny you? Follow me, Master Baggins, and we will see what we can do for ye.”

“Thank you kindly,” Bilbo says and trails after Dáin, deep into the heart of the mountain.

---

Instead of leading him straight and towards what Bilbo presumes will be the throne hall, Dáin takes a slant to the left where a broad, shiny-smooth staircase leads down. It is lined with torches and the walls on either side are carved into abstract, geometric patterns that are shot through with veins of glittering silver, mithril as Dáin explains.

At the foot of the stairs, Dáin stops so abruptly that Bilbo barrels into his brick wall of a backside and bounces straight off. Before he can ask what is happening, it becomes evident in the commotion brewing on the landing. Two dwarfs are circling each other, weapons at the ready, and a small crowd around them growls and spits curses in Khuzdul, a language Bilbo would have learned prior to arriving here if not for the secretive way the dwarves handle it. One of the dwarves is a tall female warrior with two double-headed axes in her hands and two long braids that she has tucked into her belt. The other is equally tall with a mean expression and a black haircut similar to Dáin’s and he whirls a fighting hammer at his side as though it was a toy.

“What is this?” Dáin bellows and about half of the attendees perk up, the others straight out ignore him. Something gives off a whistling sound and Bilbo flinches as Dáin catches a dagger between two fingers that would have embedded itself between Bilbo’s eyes if not for the dwarf’s intervention. It gives him palpitations, makes him break out in sweat. Was this what Bard meant? The constant warfare. But surely, it is all in jest. Dáin caught the dagger, it wouldn’t have harmed anyone. That is why there’s a burst of laughter all around.

“Lord Dáin,” the female dwarf grunts, then spits at her opponent’s feet. He responds by stopping his hammer mid-spin and leveling it at her. The murmuring growls around them swell, then ebb away, swell then ebb away and Bilbo’s mouth feels like parchment. He is about to silently slink back up the stairs, but bumps into yet another dwarf that looks like he could crush Bilbo’s neck as casually as squashing a peach.

“What now, Esta?” Dáin replies and he walks on, straight into the fighting circle, gesturing for Bilbo to follow him. He does not, deeming it safer to watch it all from a distance. That is, as long as the menace behind him doesn’t decide to bash in his skull with the broadsword he carries slung over his shoulder.

“I caught him scheming,” Esta says and crosses her axe handles in front of her face as her opponent takes another step.

“Scheming?” he yells. “Me? Scheming? Are you thick?”

“What were you doing then, eh? I saw the way your henchmen trailed my brother this morning and I heard what you said to them.” Esta pauses and turns to Dáin, now pointing both axes at the other dwarf. “‘Take him out.’, that’s what.”

“Dwalin?” Dáin asks, raising a brow, hand wandering to the big, single-blade axe he has strapped to his back. Bilbo witnesses all this as if through a fog, the voices dull, his own heartbeat drowning them out. This was all quite a terrible idea. He will not find adventure here, nor be able to trade his stock. He will only find violence and painful death. These dwarves are killers, barbarians, the whole lot of them, they are

“If you must know,” Dwalin grumbles and tosses aside the hammer. It hits the ground with a deafening thud that has the walls around them tremble. Around the three dwarves that still glower at each other, the crowd disperses slowly and under much mutual grunting and shoving. The air is decidedly hostile even though the fight seems to have been averted. Bilbo gulps heavily and his eyes dart over his shoulder where… there is no one.

“Oh thank the Valar,” he whispers only to himself as Dwalin goes on, his lip curled in defiance:

“I was talking about my ram, you dimwit. Beast’s been sick for days now and your brother, curse his name, refused to help, so I had to tell my soldiers to have mercy on it and take it out.”

“I don’t believe you,” Esta replies, wagging her axes and the gesture reminds Bilbo acutely of his own father in the middle of an argument with Belladonna, accusing her of something or another. But Dwalin does not wag back, does not try to outwit and out-morale Esta. He shrugs, collects his hammer, and brushes past Bilbo, his eyes livid.

“Give him a few days to grieve, won’t yer?” Dáin grabs Esta by the shoulder and knocks his forehead against hers, so heart it makes Bilbo cringe. He crosses his fingers that none of the dwarves will ever attempt such a gesture - of affection? - with him or he would pass straight out.

“Got nothing to grieve,” Esta mumbles and deposits both weapons in the holsters at her hips. Then she too stomps off and in the opposite direction of Dwalin, down the next set of stairs. Dáin sighs and follows and this time, Bilbo heeds his gesture, dazed and afraid to take another step on his own.

---

Dáin leads Bilbo to what he assumes is an office space. It’s a room that is open at two sides and situated at the far end of a long underground alleyway of different workshops and vendors, stalls and displays, one of Erebor’s three major hotspots of commerce as Dáin explained on the way. The small office is dominated by a grand desk the top of which is covered in different books and parchments as well as writing utensils, and one of the two walls is lined with shelves upon shelves of ledgers. Casting all this in a dusty light is a crossbreed of candelabra and gemstone display that amplifies the candles’ flickers so that a spotlight falls down to engulf the desk.

“Mylord,” the red-haired dwarf that occupies the single stool says hastily and scrambles to straighten the mess on his desk, gathering parchment and knocking over an ink bottle in the process. Bilbo is the one to dive forward, catching it before it can shatter on the blank stone floor and nearly keeling over in the process with his backpack still considerably weighty, even without his traveling equipment in there. The dwarf - Glóin as Bilbo garners from subsequent interaction - thanks him profusely and soon enough, there is ink everywhere. Spilled across the marble top of the desk, drenching Bilbo’s hands and the front of his vest, and pooling at Dáin’s feet. Glóin is quick to try and mop it all up and Bilbo gets out his handkerchief - sorry Grandma Laura - to help.

“Good for nothing traitor,” comes the hiss of a bypassing lady and Glóin flushes red, hastening the wiping motions. When the worst of the damage is contained, Bilbo and Glóin help each other up and survey the carnage.

“Thank you,” Glóin says, clearing his throat. He makes a grab for Bilbo’s shoulder, but Bilbo is quick to dodge away.

“You are very much welcome. Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” Another deep bow.

“Glóin son Gróin, at yours.”

“Fantastic,” Dáin says and smacks them both on the shoulder which has Glóin grunt and Bilbo belch in surprise. “Glóin here will help you get all settled. May business be plentiful for you and if you ever need anything, do not hesitate to inquire after me.”

“Much obliged,” Bilbo says, wiping his hands on his now ruined vest. “Much obliged.”

---

All in all, Bilbo is happy with the shop Glóin set him up with. It is nestled between a shoemaker’s shop and a trader that deals in foreign spirits and has a clean, polished stone front with a paneless window and a door carved from dark cherry-wood and lacquered to a shine. Inside, there is a countertop to the right, a couple of wall-inlaid tables and benches to the left and old wooden shelving units catching dust on the floor.

“Used to be a bar,” Glóin says with an apologetic undertone and Bilbo puts on his most diplomatic smile. “But since you have limited inventory anyway, it should suffice. You can use these old shelves free of charge.”

“How much will it be?” he asks as he puts down his backpack in the corner. Most of his seeds are wrapped in bags of cloth or paper so he will have to invest in some jars and bowls, little pieces of parchment for labels, but once the shelving is all set-up, it will be a piece of cake.

“We have a monthly fee of three gold pieces as well as a blanket ten percent tax on all your profits, be they in gold or goods.”

“That seems… reasonable,” Bilbo says and unbuttons his sullied vest, hangs it over the coat rack that has been carved into the wall next to the door. It is not nice, not yet, but with some work it could be. He could buy some tapestries to be hung on the back wall, could scour the Greenwood for some plants to pot and set-up, could even serve fresh tea for his customers. The vision slots together in his head, a cosy shop that is made even more so for the lack of lighting. There are two skeletons of chandeliers, cob-webbed and rusty, but Bilbo is imagining a big brass bowl with a constant fire crackling in it, candles on the counter and window sill. To set the atmosphere. And while he isn’t really sure it is the kind of atmosphere all dwarves would appreciate, he is certain it adheres to his target group’s tastes. Any who deal in plantlife and flowers love comfort and warmth. It is a simple rule of nature.

“First rent is due on the fifteenth,” Glóin says.

“The fif-” Bilbo turns, turns again, but Glóin has already disappeared, leaving Bilbo to his own devices. “Right. Good, yes. Rent is due on the fifthteenth, taxes are ten percent… good.”

And so, his real adventure begins.

Chapter Text

Bilbo is many things. He is a respectable gentle-hobbit, bred and grown in Hobbiton, he is a Baggins and a Took. He is a reader, a gardener, a gourmet, a cook. He is a scholar and a writer, a dreamer and a traveler, a knitter, a crocheter, he can even be found embroidering when the mood hits him. For all his fine motor skills, however, Bilbo is not a handy-hobbit. He finds a hardware and utilities vendor by name of Bifur three shops down from his where he purchases nails to put the shelves together with, and borrows a hammer from the shoemaker who turns out to be Bifur’s brother Bofur, a talkative and  - if Bilbo may say so - slightly annoying fellow that runs around with a silly hat and spends more time playing his flute than actually making shoes.

Once he is returned to his shop - Baggins’ Seeds and Saplings because he likes the alliteration - Bilbo avoids starting on the shelves. He finds an empty bucket behind the counter and fills it at the public well at the end of the hallway, then uses the handkerchief Glóin insisted on returning to him to wipe all the surfaces in his little shop. He has to return to Bifur once more to grab candles and kindling, and lights them all up. The effect is immediate. With the surfaces gleaming and a soft orange cast to everything, Bilbo can see himself enjoying his time here. Can see others being drawn to the shop.

“I need a rug,” he says. But then his gaze falls to his backpack and he can’t delay any longer. “Shelves first.” He takes up the hammer and lays out the wooden planks, then stops to consider how to put them together. There are old nails sticking out, suggestive of the initial layout, though not enough so to guide Bilbo and he finds himself scratching his head.

“Mr. Baggins.” Bilbo looks up to find that Glóin has reappeared, wringing his hands as he stands in the doorway. Peeking over his shoulder as he clings to Glóin’s backside is a small child, alike in facial structure and hair colour to Glóin with plump cheeks and not a hair on his face.

“Yes?” Bilbo puts down the hammer, relieved at the distraction. He can always tend to the shelves whenever this matter is dealt with. 

“I do not like asking favours of you,” Glóin goes on and enters the shop. “Especially not after the embarrassment I made of myself. But you may have gathered that Erebor is not the safest place, especially not for a wee lad like my Gimli to run around and play. And you seem like a very responsible, kind fellow. I would not ask, but my wife has recently taken up work again and I have work to get done or Lord Náin will replace me, and-”

“Of course,” Bilbo says. He isn’t a babysitter either, never been good with children, but he figures making friends -  indebting Glóin to him, a small, nasty voice in his head chimes in - won’t hurt. And Gimli seems complacent enough.

“Oh by Mahal’s hammer, thank you. Thank you a hundred times. I will repay you,” Glóin says and pries Gimli’s chubby fingers out of his hair and sets him down on the ground. Detached from his father’s back, Gimli doesn’t look as small, even though his hair barely brushes his shoulders. He has a wooden toy axe in his hands and a line of drool running down his chin. And Bilbo realizes with a startle that he doesn’t have the first clue about how dwarfs age. By hobbit standards, Bilbo would presume Gimli is close to ten, a third of the way to maturity. “I will pick him up once I’m done.”

“Are you an elf,” Gimli croaks once Glóin has disappeared. His voice is unusually high and nasal, his grasp of Westron wonky, and his eyes are narrowed in suspicion.

“Not an elf,” Bilbo says. “I am a hobbit.”

“A what?”

“A hobbit.”

Gimli fails to scowl at Bilbo as he burps loudly, then proceeds to hack at the ground with his toy axe. Perhaps ten was too generous a guess. Bilbo doesn’t care much, he leaves Gimli to his mindless play and turns back to the task at hand.

“Right.”

---

“You suck at this,” Gimli says by the time Bilbo has nailed the wrong boards together for the third time in a row.

“He really does, huh?”

“Yes.”

Bilbo jerks up from his crouch and nearly bangs his head on the half-built shelf. Two new faces peer through the window, their arms propped up on the sill. They look almost similar enough to be twins with soft features and softer waves, one dark, one blonde, but one of them has a dusting of beard covering his chin and jawline while the other has skin as smooth as Gimli’s. “And who,” Bilbo asks, pinching the bridge of his nose on a sigh. There are decidedly too many dwarves in this mountain. It should have been a given, but for some reason, Bilbo thought they would leave him alone. “Are you?”

Gimli spots them at the same time as Bilbo does and exclaims something in Khuzdûl.

“Yes, it is indeed your beloved cousins,” the blond one says and to Bilbo: “Can we come in?”

“We could help you build those shelves,” the brown-haired one adds.

“What are your names and what’s in it for you?” Bilbo asks, shoulders sagging. He has a feeling that he is going

“Fili-"

"- and Kili."

"At your service," they add in one voice.

“Pleased to meet you," Bilbo lies. "I'm Bil-”

“Mr. Boggins, we know who you are of course.”

“It’s Baggins, actually.”

“Just as we said,” Fili agrees and they disappear from the window only to pop into the shop seconds later. Gimli squeals with glee and throws himself at his cousins. They enjoy a momentary group hug, eyes closed, soft smiles gracing their lips, and Bilbo feels something warm flood his chest.

“I don’t have anything to offer yet,” he mumbles when they break apart and Kili and Fili get to work, plucking the tools from Bilbo’s hands like daisies from a patch of grass. They are adolescents at most, but they are more dexterous and efficient at carpentry than any hobbit Bilbo has met in his life. “But if you come back tomorrow, I can bring tea and biscuits.”

“Lovely,” Fili says.

“Just wonderful,” Kili agrees.

“Mr. Boggins is so stupid,” Gimli says and hits Bilbo’s calf with his toy axe. Bilbo yelps and hops away on one foot under the giggles of his guests. Fili and Kili have three cupboards up in a fraction of the time it would have taken Bilbo and just in time for Glóin to admire when he picks up Gimli. Only Glóin doesn’t see the shelves, he is wide-eyed and flushed once more, staring at Fili and Kili as though they are predators.

“What are they doing here?” Glóin asks and scrambles to gather Gimli up in his arms.

“They were helping me set up the shelves.”

“No, no, they can’t be here, Gimli can’t-”

“Uncle Glóin,” Fili pleads. “Please. We only want to spend time together, we never-”

“Nononono. Mr. Baggins, thank you for taking care of Gimli.” And with that, Glóin scurries off, much to Gimli’s very adamant dismay.

“What just happened?” Bilbo asks, squinting at the dust Glóin whirled up. Fili and Kili sigh in unison.

“Just old people being stupid,” Kili sighs, trudges to one of the tables and slumps down on the bench.

“So stupid,” Fili agrees. He joins his brother and they quietly converse in Khuzdûl. Bilbo can only give them their privacy and start to pull out his seed bags. They leave some time later, promising to be back tomorrow for those biscuits and Bilbo doesn’t look forward to it, he’d rather have paying customers, but it’s a start and he finds he has a soft spot for the three of them. Maybe they can explain to him what exactly is going on.

---

Very little actual seed-trading is done in the first week of Baggins’ Seeds and Saplings being in business.

A lot of Bilbo’s time is spent knitting his thank-you gift for Marie and letting Gimli insult him from his favourite spot on the floor. Even more of it is spent collecting all the toys the lad leaves strewn about so the couple of customers that do trail in don’t step on them and make him cry. There is no sight nor sound more horrifying than Gimli crying. Those customers often don’t have seeds to trade and so Bilbo sells some of them for coppers and hopes he can buy new ones elsewhere.

For all their joking and fooling around, their loud mock-fighting and know-it-all-ing, Fili and Kili are uncharacteristically tight-lipped when Bilbo probes for more information on the tensions he notices day in and out. The frequent brawls that erupt out of nowhere, the misunderstandings that seem actively encouraged, the metaphorical and real daggers that fly all over. On his second day, Bilbo heard shattering and sloshing noises and when he looked into the alcohol-shop next to his own, Bifur and Bofur were smashing bottles with some of Bofur’s shoes, all of which had gashes and slices covering them. There was so much liqueur, in fact, that rivulets of it ran out of the shop and made Bilbo scrub half the hallway. Hostility and hatred rule the mountain and Bilbo doesn’t understand it. Bilbo doesn’t understand it, and Fili and Kili won’t talk about it, and Gimli keeps saying: “Mr. Boggins is mad.”

Whenever those three aren’t around, Bilbo invests his time in perfecting his shop. He finds a stall with all varieties of potted plants in the great market hall three levels down, all of them cultivated to deal with the lack of natural lightning in the mountain, and he buys a variety of succulents and something that the dwarf lady manning the stall tells him is a small ‘palm tree’. Bilbo’s own saplings do not like the dim firelight and so he raises them in his rooms back at Marie’s and sketches out their likenesses to display in his shop. Later into the week, he also finds a red-and-brown woven rug and a tapestry, something nondescript, unpolitical, or so he hopes. It shows a mountain range that Bilbo has never seen in real life before, but can identify as the Blue Mountains which used to border on Beleriand. He even buys a brand-new set of teapot, cups, and saucers as well as a little stove in a crammed shop in Dale so he can at least make sure the young dwarves have something to drink, even if it takes him more than a day to make good on the promised tea and he has yet to find - or make - biscuits.

“What’s this?” Fili asks when Bilbo finally serves it, sniffing suspiciously at the brew. Before Bilbo can answer he has to dive for Gimli who’s raised his toy hammer - he has a whole collection of toy weapons and Bilbo has confiscated at least half a dozen items, but he keeps bringing more of them - to smash the cup with. He catches Gimli’s wrist mid-swing and glares at all three children who shrink back.

“Tea,” Bilbo snaps and takes away Gimli’s hammer. “It is brewed with hot water and plants, nettle in this case. Let it cool for a moment, then try a sip.” And then he adds, just under his breath: “Might be a good change from all the ale you’ve been lifting from Valar knows where.”

At least he hopes they do. As it stands, Bilbo doesn’t even know who exactly Fili and Kili are and where they have come from. He knows they’re Gimli’s cousins so they must have some standing in Erebor. They are always dressed well, even if they manage to tear their shirts often and track dirt everywhere, and they walk with pride and importance suffusing their steps, but so do most dwarves when Bilbo stops to think about it. He just prays every time their goofy grins pop up in his shop that their parents don’t mind them spending so much time here.

Slurping sounds bring Bilbo back to reality. Both Fili and Kili have cradled their cups in their palms and take tentative sips while Gimli watches them, his tiny and way too bushy eyebrows knitted together. The sight is adorable and Bilbo can feel his face go through a series of strange expressions to smother the smile.

“Good, isn’t it?”

“It’s… different”, Kili says and takes another sip, eyes widening. “I like it.”

“Me too,” Fili agrees. Only then does Gimli also take up his cup and try the tea. He spits it out immediately and shoves the cup away. Something sweeter for the youngest one perhaps. It’s not like Bilbo doesn’t have time to find out.

“I feel strange,” Kili goes on and he empties the tea in two long drafts that should have scalded his tongue and singed his throat.

“Calmer,” Fili supplies and they glance at each other.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe our esteemed rulers should have some of this,” they say in unison, then burst out laughing. So much for calm. Bilbo collects the cups once he has drunk Gimli’s tea and puts them aside for rinsing later.

“Rulers?” he asks, noticing the plural a minute too late. Fili and Kili have already disappeared.

---

Glóin and his wife Hesta - Esta’s younger sister - drop by the shop to collect their son not long after Fili and Kili have left and Gimli runs to them, craning and reaching to be picked up.

“I hate Mr. Boggins,” he declares and settles into his father’s arms. Seconds later, he is snoring peacefully.

“Excuse him,” Hesta says and bends over to stroke Gimli’s cheek and place a wet kiss on his nose.

“Never you mind,” Bilbo assures her with a grin. “I presume insults are his love language.”

“His what now?” Glóin asks, but drops the question when his wife says something in Khuzdûl. Bilbo picks out his own name and the word for ‘thank’ which is one of the three words he has been able to glean from observation. It’s a slow progress, but not slower than his quest is coming along and so Bilbo figures if he’s in for the long haul, he might as well .

All part of the plan.

All a great big adventure.

“I understand,” Glóin says to Bilbo eventually. They bid each other a good day and turn to leave when Bilbo is struck by an idea.

“Glóin,” he calls after them and Glóin glances back over his shoulder. “Do you have a minute?”

“I suppose it is the least I owe you,” Glóin replies. He hands Gimli over to his wife whose eyes keep darting up and down the corridor. He murmurs something to her, again nothing Bilbo can make out, then slinks back into the shop, drawing the door shut behind himself. Bilbo gestures for Glóin to settle at one of the tables. With the candles almost burned down and the timing of Glóin’s visit, it has to be close to evening, but Bilbo can’t rest tonight, not if he doesn’t finally have his answers. Something tells him business will be easier to handle if he knows what kind of a climate he is dealing with.

“Here,” Bilbo says. He sets a cup of tea in front of Glóin which the red-haired dwarf eyes with a carbon copy of Gimli’s earlier suspicion. Bilbo settles down opposite him with a second cup of his own and folds his hands in front of his face as he waits for it to cool down. Glóin mimics him, looking like he’d rather crawl out of his own skin than have this conversation. 

“We dwarves are not big tea drinkers.”

“I noticed,” Bilbo says gently. “Try it anyway.”

Glóin does and smacks his lips.

“Adequate,” he concludes. “But I suspect you tea isn’t the reason you asked me to stay.”

“It is not… Glóin can I ask you something? I have tried asking Fili and Kili-”

“Have they been around again?”

“See, that’s the problem, isn’t it? They have been, almost every day, and I don’t understand why that makes you anxious. Sure, they are often silly and loud and chaotic, but so is Gimli. They tell me they are cousins and it’s clear that they love each other. I’m inclined to say they belong together. Why would you keep them apart?” Bilbo cocks his head and waits for Glóin to gather his words. The dwarf struggles for a long breath, eye darting all over the place, hands trembling around the handle of the cup before he puts it down again, and deflates with a sigh.

“This is good tea,” he mumbles. “Quite excellent tea.”

“Glóin.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you under the condition that you don’t mention it to anyone. I am working hard to retain my position and care for my family, I cannot afford to compromise it, not while I’m still saving up to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Yes, leave. You will understand why in a moment… Here goes nothing. You see, Mr. Baggins, Thrór has been King under the Mountain ever since we, Durin’s Folk, claimed it as our home. He ruled justly, accumulated riches, and found his reign to be supported when his miners found the King’s Jewel, the Arkenstone.” Bilbo nods. He passed by the throne hall once, and was immediately blinded by the gem’s bright shine. Too flashy for his tastes, but he can see how it would adorn a king. “All was well, for a while. But Thrór became greedy and as his hoard grew, so did the attention cast upon Erebor. Word of its great wealth spread and other creatures looked to claim the gold for themselves.”

“A dragon,” Bilbo supplies.

“Aye. Smaug, last of the great wyrms of the North. The flaps of his wings were thunderous, his fire melted stone. He came hither with the intention to destroy Dale and claim the Lonely Mountain as his lair. But Girion, then King of Dale, shot him from the sky ere he could wipe us out. I was not here when it happened, but I have heard tale and song and I thank Mahal every morning that I was not a witness to the massacre. Erebor’s dwarves were reduced to half their numbers, Dale suffered tragic blows to its infrastructure. The tale of their survival got twisted and the news that reached us, the dwarfs of the Iron Hills and King Náin, Thrór’s nephew, rang differently. We were told our cousins and brothers had been decimated, we were told the mountain stood gaping, empty, all the riches Thrór had laboured for exposed to the wide world. Naturally, we rallied together and made for that mountain.”

“Only to find it still occupied,” Bilbo says. The cogs turn in his mind, slotting together.

“Yes. Thrór had held onto his throne, for dear life at that. He was gravely injured and subject to lasting coma, so his son Thráin had taken over. Thráin gladly invited us all to stay at Erebor and accepted Náin, his cousin, as king. We were to share, our people to reunite. But when Thrór healed and woke once more, his rage was greater, burned fiercer than that of Smaug and he accused his nephew of attempting to steal from him, accused his son of betraying him. Thrór reclaimed his throne and disinherited Thráin, naming his son crown prince. Meanwhile Náin was enraged by his uncle’s claims and unwillingness to share in Erebor’s natural wealth. He named himself High-King, independent of Thrór’s authority. Our people started to wage war on one another. Never outright, rarely in a manner that is lethal. But is has been that way for nigh on three decades now.”

Right. A lasting feud. That makes a terrible amount of sense and serves to conjure a noxious wave of dread that washes right through Bilbo.

“Hmmmm,” he hums and swallows the bitterness of bile that wants to rise in him. He can handle this. He has to. Bilbo gathers all his Tookish courage and hides his despair in his cup. Swallow. Deep breath. In and out. “There is nothing that will settle these differences?”

“There have been attempts. Thrór’s grandson is fighting for a unified Erebor and so, in a way, is Dáin. But dwarves are stubborn and as long as Thrór and Náin hold to their grudges, there will be no peace in Erebor.”

“Fili and Kili?”

“Distant cousins of ours, but most importantly, Thrór’s great-grandsons.”

All the alarms in Bilbo’s heads tick off at that. He’s been having princes for guests. Having princes built his bookshelves. They will hang him for this, he is certain. 

“What about me?”

“You have nothing to do with it,” Glóin says, waving the notion away. “There might be some who will try to win you over to their side, but I suspect you’re too much of an outsider to matter in this anyway.”

Bilbo finds that those words sting, but Glóin is right, he doesn’t belong, and Bilbo has experienced enough of Hobbiton squabbles and gossip conspiracies that he can understand some of what is going on. It’s the violence and bloodshed that concern him. He just wants to trade seeds.

“I understand. Thank you, Glóin.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Baggins. If there is anything else…?”

“No nothing else. Except… call me Bilbo, won’t you?”

“My station doesn’t allow-”

“Pish-tosh,” Bilbo says and waves Glóin away. “I have been minding your son free of charge for a week now, I think we are beyond business relations.”

“Alright, Bilbo.” The word comes out tentative and small, as though Glóin is still trying it out. Bilbo gives him an encouraging smile and sends him off, hoping he made his first friend that is not underage. Hoping, really hoping, that Glóin knows some people who would like to trade plants.

---

Glóin doesn’t bring Gimli the next day. Nor the next. Fili and Kili appear once, hiding from a raging Dwalin that tears down the hallway and doesn’t stop to consider they might have slipped into Bilbo’s shop. They giggle and snicker and hide behind the counter until Dwalin’s loud curses are out of earshot. Bilbo doesn’t ask them what they’re on about. He can’t, not with the tears that prickle in his eyes when he looks at them and the pure glee written all over their faces, then the wobbly lips and glassy eyes when he tells them that Gimli’s return is unlikely.

“Besides,” Bilbo says. “I have to put some work into securing customers soon. Otherwise I have to find someplace else to trade these seeds.” He gestures at the sorry shelves that have begun to gather dust again.

“Someplace else?” Kili asks, alarmed.

“No way,” Fili says.

“I think you’re in the clear,” Bilbo sighs, ushering them out. It was a mindless thought that came to him, but maybe he’s right. Maybe Erebor really isn’t the place. Bard said it when he arrived. Dáin hinted at it as well. Belladonna said that she thought it was a stupid idea loudly, clearly, all the way back when this plan was in the making. But Bilbo trusted his father, Bungo knows the business of gardening… doesn’t he?

“What do I do?” he asks. Screams answer, battle cries from down the hall, and Bilbo lets his head clink against the wood of the door. Another day, another brawl. Bilbo has grown tired of it already.

---

Bilbo decides to stay faithful. He doesn’t want to slink back home, tail between his legs and admit that he failed, not when he hasn’t tried everything possible. Bungo raised him to be thorough and precise, Belladonna raised him to be tough and enduring. 

“A Took and a Baggins, and most importantly, an adventurer,” Bilbo tells himself when he gets up the next morning to return to his shop. He trades a handful of sunflower seeds for those of a Southern breed of tomato and it rejuvenates his spirits. Minor setbacks, dips in his confidence. They are normal and he can overcome them for the time being. If he trades a handful today, who knows what tomorrow will bring? Word will spread, more so if he starts advertising his venture more aggressively.  He just has to get the ball rolling.

“A Took and a Baggins, and most importantly, a tradesman.”

---

Tomorrow brings a safety hazard first and foremost and it brings it in the shape of two blurry shapes tearing across Erebor’s vast entrance hall. No one has eyes for the arching pillars and imposing statues when there’s another brawl happening.

“Excuse me,” Bilbo says as he presses through a bubble of onlookers and past the guards who are trading bets amongst themselves, precariously close to entering a skirmish of their own. Bilbo dodges past children that squeal and raise their fists and tries his utmost to get past the fight without getting involved in it.

“Come here, you rat-faced bastard,” a voice booms across the space and Bilbo recognizes it as Esta’s which would make the other contestant-

“Dwalin! Du Bekar! Dwalin! Dwalin!” About half of the crowd chants.

That makes Bilbo stop and he hides behind an elderly dwarf with a trumpet-earpiece who turns out to be Glóin’s older brother Óin. Dwalin runs away from Esta’s spinning axes, but it’s an elaborate manoeuvre to get her to cut corners and exhaust herself. He feigns left, she follows, then he stops abruptly and trips her up with the handle of his hammer. Esta face-plants and a murmur travels the perimeter of the hall, bouncing off in amused echoes.

“You know, in the Shire we say that teasing is a sign of affection,” Bilbo says, crossing his arms. Esta gets up and her fury is twice renewed. “Though I suppose this falls more into the realm of attempted homicide. Reciprocated at least. What has happened this time?”

“Hm?” Óin grunts and points to the trumpet. It is dented and rusty.

“Never you mind,” Bilbo says. He leaves Dwalin and Esta to their nemeses’ quarrel and heads straight for the stairway to the left. He has more important things to worry about then whether they will finally manage to bash each other’s head in.

---

Bilbo is held up once again on the landing that leads to the second set of stairs and it is, thankfully, not by another fight. It’s by a trio of people, two of which beam at Bilbo, recovered from the shock Bilbo dealt them two days ago.

“Ah, Mr. Boggins! We want to introduce you to someone. This is Thorin,” Fili explains without much preamble, and pushes a dwarf Bilbo has never seen around Erebor before towards him. “He knows a lot about plants and stuff.”

Thorin blinks down at Bilbo. He is regal and brutishly handsome, has a head on Bilbo and his aquiline features resemble those of a man more than those of a dwarf. If not for the beard and minus a few inches of the black-and-grey waves that cascade down his back, he might have become favoured among even Hobbit womenfolk. The beads braided into his hair catch the flickers of torchlight and Bilbo’s gaze would feel drawn to them if he wasn’t pierced in place by the dwarf’s intent stare. Bilbo feels the tips of his ears grow hot and understand with a clarity until then unknown to him that his tastes greatly diverge from those of the average hobbit lass. He swallows heavily, all his courtesy forsaking him.

“You do?” Bilbo asks. He could smack himself for how hollow and silly that sounds. If Thorin is associated with Fili and Kili he has to occupy an important position. He may even be a member of the royal family.

Thorin clears his throat and his voice comes out a deep base that strikes a note inside of Bilbo he isn’t sure he can handle right now.

“It is an integral part of my duties,” he says vaguely. Not royal then. “And while we trade primarily in minerals and ore, our agricultural sector is not insignificant.”

“Are you involved in it?” Bilbo keeps prying and behind Thorin, Fili and Kili have their heads tucked together, giggling. There is something Bilbo is missing here.

“In a way, I oversee it,” Thorin replies.

“OH,” Bilbo exclaims. Thorin must be the minister of agriculture. And Bilbo has been behaving like an absolute donkey. “What an honour to make your acquaintance.” He gives a hasty bow, hoping to veil his embarrassment.

“And yours, Master Boggins.” Thorin pats him awkwardly on the head which makes Bilbo flush even harder. Fili and Kili are gasping for air and Thorin pins them down with a glare that looks the way Bilbo imagines Smaug’s fire must have felt like. He takes a half-step back, but seems to be the only one intimidated by it. Fili and Kili still giggle.

“Didn’t the two of you have geography lessons to attend to?” Bilbo says through gritted teeth and that was a mistake because it draws Thorin’s focus back to him. His eyes are narrowed, his thin lips slightly parted in surprise. Right. Bilbo forgot the young troublemakers are technically the heirs to everything around them, and he just stepped way out of line. “Forgive me, I-”

“No,” Thorin cuts in and breaks into an incredulous smile. “No, you speak the truth. I had wondered myself what they were up to, dragging me here. Fili! Kili!” Thorin barks their names. “Go back to your lessons.”

“Yessir,” Fili and Kili say. Their spirits don’t seem dampened and Bilbo suspects it is because they have achieved their purpose, whatever it may have been. He fidgets with his vest, straightening it, then wiping a smudge off one of his buttons.

“Well, Mr. Boggins, I have urgent business to attend to, but we should congregate and talk about your ventures. These… seeds of yours sound most intriguing from what Fili and Kili have been telling me. Perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

“It’s Baggins, actually,” is all Bilbo replies to that. Just because he is tired of their mischief and he has made a spectacle out of himself enough today to last him through the rest of the week. The minister of agriculture! And so handsome at that! It is quite disastrous.

“That is precisely what I just said.”

“I-... of course. I am at your service when it pleases, mylord.” Bilbo gives another bow and receives another pat, to the shoulder this time. When he rises, Thorin is already rushing up the stairs.

Chapter Text

As Bilbo calls his goodbyes to Marie the next morning, promising to take care of the tear in her apron her gnarled fingers cannot mend themselves once he gets back, he is snatched straight out of the doorway and dragged into an alley.

“Excuse you, hello, what is-”

“Shhhh,” Bard hisses, and tugs Bilbo along. His hair is disheveled and he wears the same brown coat Bilbo always sees him traversing the streets of Dale in. 

“What is going on?”

“I am but an emissary,” Bard says and winks at Bilbo. They make their way to the outskirts of Dale and slip past a snoozing guardsmen through its Southern gate, then down, down to the where the rocky path merges into sand washed up by the lake. Bilbo’s feet prickle and goosebumps erupt all over his limbs, but he trusts Bard instinctively.

Down by the lake and hidden by a formation of boulders, someone waits for them and it can be but one person. King Thranduil of the Greenwood. Clad in red silks and starkly white fur atop a massive elk. The similarities to Prince Legolas are striking, the most glaring ones being the brightly blond hair and the piercing blue eyes. More than that, they share the same facial structure, the same note of faint disdain as they regard the world around them. But there is something more to Thranduil, ages of the world written as bloody knowledge all over his bearing. An air of elusiveness that makes Bilbo think touching Thranduil would have him dissolve into a glittering vapor. He is stunning in the same way the Arkenstone is or Belladonna’s flower beds are. Something to be admired and cherished, but something that will not ever reciprocate those feelings.

“Mae govannen,” Thranduil says smoothly as he glides off his steed with a grace that does make Bilbo feel a little hot around the neck as he remembers the way he greeted Dáin on their first - and to date singular - meeting. Bilbo gives his deepest bow yet, nose close to touching his knees as he recites his usual phrase of greeting. It is an automatism at this point, and if someone presented him with the list of all the people he promised his services to in the last month or so, he would surely keel over.

“It is my pleasure and honour,” Bilbo adds as he rises and tries not to cower before Thranduil’s impenetrable stare.

They will call him Bilbo, Companion of Kings and Princes once this is all over. Bilbo the Wily One who managed to slip into the presences of these great characters to gain their favour. In reality, Bilbo neither cares for the station of his associates nor does he have any particular schemes in mind beyond the simple one of accomplishing his goals, but history is not so kind and if the minds of the future ever deign to write about him, Bilbo doubts they will paint him in a favourable light.

“You are a trader?” Thranduil inquires.

“Currently, yes. I hope to exchange the seeds and plant life local to my home for those native to these parts.”

“You will not make much progress by way of dealing plants in that mountain. The dwarves are a people of stone and gem.”

“I know,” Bilbo says. “And of big noses and petty feuds, brutal brawls and ill-mannered remarks.”

“I could not have phrased it better,” Thranduil agrees. He glides past them, the train of his robe whirling up leaves and dust as he makes towards the shore of the Long Lake where the water gently laps at stone and grass. The morning is fresh and bright, and outside of the town, Bilbo’s breath puffs before his face, strange this late into summer, but if that is the extent of Bard’s strange weather patterns he does witness, courtesy of working in a mountain, Bilbo will not complain. He simply draws Everik’s green coat tighter around himself and falls into step beside Bard who’s following Thranduil with his bottom lip sucked in. There is something else in Bard’s expression, a concoction of mirth and wariness, another tangle of relationships Bilbo fears he will be sucked into ere the sun has fully risen.

“You tire of them then,” Thranduil continues with a glance over his shoulders, the iciness in his eyes veiled behind his long lashes. They walk on, hugging the lake’s shore in their trail towards the hills that separate this patch of Middle-Earth from the rolling planes that stretch towards the Southern kingdoms.

“I do not see how their lack of politeness has anything to do with my business,” Bilbo says, treading carefully, but failing to sound non-judgmental all the while. This was not what Bungo and Belladonna prepared him for and no amount of hours spent with Fili and Kili could have done so either.

“Dwarves are unchangeable, inflexible. They will not let go of their grudges for as long as their race digs and mines these lands raw and dry. And thusly occupied, they do not care for anything else.”

“I have met a dwarf or two whose company is worth investing in,” Bard remarks and that earns him a harsh glare by Thranduil as he rounds on them, teeth bared.

“A dwarf or two not a kingdom make,” he says and fixes them both in place by his sheer will. Bilbo gulps heavily, but takes heart in the fact that Bard remains unconcerned. “You would do well to remember it, Bard the Bargeman, considering your position. And you, halfling, what were you thinking? My realm has been raised from the roots of the forest, the flora there thrives and speaks freely. You and your seeds do not belong among those reeking earthworms nor will you find what you seek there.”

The implication is crystal-clear: renounce your efforts and come to me. And it would be easy. It might even be more profitable both short-term and in the long run. But that is not the task Bilbo was set and it seems that Thranduil is no less vengeful than any dwarf scrapping . At least they do it to each other’s faces and not hiding behind boulders with harsh words of hatred and coercion. All this, Bilbo thinks, but cannot utter aloud.

“Perhaps Bilbo enjoys a challenge,” Bard suggests.

“A challenge? What are you, a foolish adolescent?” Thranduil retorts.  

“I have heard your words and thank you for them, but I ought to make my way to Erebor now,” Bilbo says and bows again.

“Halfling-”

“My name is Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins. Good day!”

As he trails off, he can hear Thranduil’s enraged words fall from his lips, upsetting the lake’s surface as thoroughly as any heavy rock thrown into them might have.

“You were supposed to support me in this.”

“I promised no such thing,” Bard replies lightly.

Bilbo chances a glance once he deems it safe and his mouth falls open at the scene that now plays out several feet below him. Thranduil has built himself up before Bard, menacing in his sheer height which is supported by the flowing lines of his deep scarlet robes and the twigs of his crown that earn him an entire head of height on Bard. He glowers down his nose, chin raised, but utterly motionless. Because Bard has grabbed his shoulders and is grinning brighter than Uncle Bingo when he is served smoked ribs.

Which confirms what Bilbo knew all along. It isn’t just dwarves that are mad around here. Everyone is, except for Marie maybe. And the whole lot of them ought to spend a nice evening by the fire with a few long drags of Longbottom Leaf. If only there were enough of it in this world to make peace among dwarves, elves, and men alike.  

---

Bilbo scurries along Dale’s outer wall towards Erebor, but only makes it as far as one of the dwarven outposts halfway between the two settlements. It is a simple wooden structure were a handful of guards sit playing dice most of the time, but this time Thorin is there also, arms crossed and tapping his foot. He is clad in a shining silver cuirass and a teal over-cloak with white-grey fur trimming, his favoured color scheme Bilbo surmises. Thorin perks up when he sees Bilbo, features softening into a smile. 

“Mr. Boggins!” he says and reaches for Bilbo’s shoulder, pulling him closer. Bilbo’s eyes widen and his nose grows decidedly hotter than the coolness of the day can account for. "How glad I am to see you! I feared you would not come."

"I… I was waylaid," Bilbo says, baffled at Thorin's enthusiasm. Is he so eager to talk about Bilbo's business? And if so, where was he all this time? "I hope you did not wait for me?"

Which would mean this already bleek day has taken a turn for the worse. Punctuality is a Hobbit's primary virtue as every member of the Baggins family tree will not hesitate to elaborate upon. And here Bilbo is, late to opening the shop and having potentially wasted the time of the one dwarf in Erebor most essential to his cause - admittedly not the only reason Bilbo wants to keep Thorin’s interest. 

"I did. But let us proceed,” Thorin says and ushers Bilbo along, the hand on his shoulder remaining. 

---

Where before Bilbo has fallen a little bit in love with his nook of a shop, has made it a tiny shard of home, he can now see all its insufficiencies under Thorin’s scrutinizing stare. The tapestry is drab, discolored and plain, the rug more so. Bilbo hasn’t had a chance to replace the candles yet so the shop’s surfaces are littered with molten stumps. He never did get that brass bowl that keeps appearing in his dreams.

More so, the one shelf has been heartlessly stuffed with little bowls of seeds, the labels hastily scribbled. Bilbo’s sapling drawings are sketches at best and one tree looks exactly like the next.

“It is not much,” Bilbo says, wringing his hands. He gathers yesterday’s dishes which he would have cleaned if it hadn’t been for Thranduil’s early morning pep talk, and deposits them on a low wooden plank he had Fili and Kili install under the counter.

“It suffices,” Thorin says and walks up to the shelves, squinting to read Bilbo’s handwriting. “Say, what would I get in exchange for a pouch full of rose seeds?”

“Roses?” Bilbo asks. He can’t help the disappointment tinging his voice.

“Do not overexert yourself, Master Boggins, your glee is barely containable,” Thorin says over his shoulder, lip twitching and Bilbo ducks his head and sets to lighting the stove, sucking in his cheeks so he doesn’t have to grin in spite of feeling like he has come up short in all points

“Tea?”

“Ale please,” Thorin says. “Half a pint.”

“I do not-”

“Ale,” Thorin repeats and reaches for a small pouch of seeds from Belladonna’s favourite tomato breed, big and fleshy ones that are lovely in a pork roast or on toasted bread.

“Of course, a moment.”

Anything for the minister of agriculture, Bilbo thinks, not even with disdain. And really, this isn’t the most far-fetched request he’s had in his shop. Bofur dropped by asking for a narcotic once, mistaking Bilbo’s trade for that of an herbalist. 

Finding ale for Thorin takes Bilbo into a part of Erebor he has avoided since then, the long alley that mirrors the one his shop is in on the other side of the mountain, filled with pubs and taverns and, more often than not, drunk dwarves. It is still early enough that he only has to dodge away from two or three of them and only stumbles over one passed out dwarf lady. He buys the half-pint from an amiable dwarf called Bombur and makes a beeline for his shop by way of an underground walkway through the upper sections of the forges that connects the two alleys.

“I want to trade my roses for these,” Thorin says once Bilbo returns with his drink. As Bilbo inspects what Thorin has picked out - a common enough breed of crocus that would look delightful braided into Thorin’s voluminous lengths - and pulls close his scale to weigh the amounts against one another, Thorin watches him carefully, froth speckling his beard. “You are doubtful.”

“I would never doubt a dwarf with your expertise,” Bilbo murmurs and surmises that the amounts are even enough that he can trade the entire stock for Thorin’s roses.

“Disappointed then?”

“... by no fault of yours, I assure you,” Bilbo sighs. He gathers the edges of the small sack the crocus was kept in and wraps a length of thin ribbon around them, tying it into a neat bow. “It is just that roses bloom in every respectable Hobbit’s garden. We have an entire competition surrounding them and though I love them as much as any flower, I cannot help but yearn for something more...exciting. I am very sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Understand, Master Boggins, that I cannot play all my trump cards on our first meeting,” Thorin says into his tankard, then puts it down. Before he can wipe his mouth with his sleeve in typical dwarf fashion, Bilbo has pulled out a handkerchief and holds it out for him. “I-... thank you. Understand also, that these are not your everyday Shire roses.”

“No? What are they then?” Bilbo asks. He takes the stained cloth back and stuffs it into his pocket. He is due a batch of laundry soon anyway.

“Have you ever heard of the Princedom of Dol Amroth?”

“Vaguely. A province of Gondor if I recall correctly?”

“Indeed. But more importantly, home to the rarest roses on Middle-Earth. These roses have been through generations and generations of magical fertilizers, cross-breeding, and soil enrichment. They are the most valuable export goods out of Dol Amroth and they bloom in hues of cerulean and sapphire.”

“Blue?”

“Blue.”

“If this is you hiding your trump cards,” Bilbo says, unable to keep his mouth from dropping open. He must look a right fool, childish and doe-eyed, completely in awe. “Then I am almost afraid to invite you back. All I have are common vegetables and wild flowers.”

“Fret not, we will find an agreement. Thank you for your hospitality.” Thorin grabs the crocus and squeezes Bilbo’s shoulder before bidding him a good day. When he’s gone, Bilbo’s still staring at the innocent-looking collection of small seeds. Blue roses. Bungo will never believe this. Blue roses. They will win next year’s contest and every one after that and for that alone, the journey was well worth it.

---

Fili and Kili trudge in not long after Thorin has left. Bilbo lights up further when he sees them, wants to offer them tea , but they look like a funeral procession with their shoulders slumped and the corners of their mouths drooping to the floor. Neither wears their usual little braids nor their mischievous smiles and they carry stacks of parchment tucked under their arms.

“Good day, mylords. I much prefer your usual raiment of perpetual amusement, melancholy does not suit you at all,” Bilbo jokes. They don’t retort in kind, don’t stick out their tongues and that has Bilbo truly worried.

“We are only allowed to come here if we do our homework,” Kili explains, patting Fili on the shoulder when he flinches at the word ‘homework’. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Bilbo says and gestures for the tables. As they set up their ink bottles and parchment, he finally gets around to distributing new candles and taking yesterday’s dishes to the well at the end of the hallway. Glóin sits behind his desk, frantically scribbling numbers and returns Bilbo’s greeting with a grunt. 

When he enters the shop again, Fili and Kili are hunched over their homework and Bilbo keeps himself busy with minor chores like rewriting his labels and dusting off the surfaces. Bifur comes in to buy a handful of sunflower seeds to munch on, but other than that no more business crops up and Bilbo is fine with that. He has an entire pouch full of valuable seeds now and if Thorin returns, no, make that when Thorin returns, he will bring more marvels with him.

“Mr. Boggins,” Kili asks and Bilbo looks up from where he’s been staring at the rose seeds to find Kili has approached the counter, sucking on his lower lip. The look of defeated confusion he throws Bilbo makes him seem ten years younger than he is. Bilbo wants to wipe it away. Bilbo wants to hug him. Bilbo wants to wrap him in a blanket and tuck him in, tell him a story, tell him it’s all going to be alright.

Which is how he knows something is up.

Fili and Kili are many things, but they are not helpless. Bilbo doesn’t think they have been helpless a day in their lives.

“Alright, why the long face?”

“We are terrible at this,” Kili says. “We have to write a letter to our mother in the Westron alphabet and we keep getting the letters mixed up. Cirth is so much more straightforward.”

“I will help you.”

The clouds around Kili’s face part and he beams at Bilbo, dragging him over to where Fili looks ready to cry. After making both a cup of mint tea, Bilbo explains the formal elements of a letter to them, helps them pen a greeting and an introductory paragraph. They are discussing what to tell their mother - Lady Dís - about when Gimli teeters into the shop on his stumpy legs, announcing that he has returned to make sure Bilbo doesn’t engage in shady dealings.

“COUSIN,” Fili and Kili exclaim in unison and jump up from their seats, upsetting their pages and nearly spilling ink all over their work. Bilbo catches the bottle in time and watches Fili and Kili lift Gimli up to squash him between them in a hug that should have broken his bones. An invisible weight on Bilbo’s chest lifts at the sight, and he shakes his head, entirely too fond of the trio.

---

After that day, things return to what Bilbo has come to know as normal. He gets up in the mornings and has a quick breakfast with Marie who asks him little things in return for her hospitality. Some days it actually is to sweep the hallway or the front porch, some days to make the trip to the market for her and bring back cabbage or fish, depending on her appetite. Bilbo does her laundry as well as his own and brings her small bouquets he plucks on the way back from Erebor. Once, on a day Bilbo decides to leave the shop closed, he takes her on a walk down by the lake and they sit in the sun for a bit as he reads to her and she keeps interrupting with anecdotes about her Everik. But usually, Bilbo is out the door after food and a small task and makes his way to the Lonely Mountain.

Before he can ever reach his shop he is often intercepted by some commotion or other. Even though Dáin has taken to parading around the mountain with a giant hammer ornamented with jewels in reds and purples slung over his shoulder, roughly de-escalating brawls, it is too much for one dwarf to handle, be he named High-Prince or not. Dwalin and Esta have ever escalating fights and others look to them as role models, but really, they spearhead this whole feud in the most aggressive and loud fashion. And since Bilbo has no point of reference for the head-locked kings, he can’t tell if Dwalin and Esta surpass them in hatred, but with every fight Bilbo witnesses, every silly reason they find - Dwalin claiming Esta looked at him funnily and tried to kill him with a single stare; Esta claiming Dwalin hid her socks so she would get blisters and be unable to walk properly anymore; both claiming the other hired an assassin to take them out - he gets a little more certain that the feud is just an excuse for them. Two people who hate each other don’t make up nearly as many excuses to spend time together as Dwalin and Esta make. Even Óin agrees to this when Bilbo drops another remark to that extent.

There is never a word of apology or explanation from Glóin, just a small nod, and the fact that he resumes asking Bilbo to look after Gimli most days. Though Gimli’s absence was short-lived, Bilbo has to admit that he missed the child. Not his ever more purple insults, perhaps, but his presence. Without Gimli, the shop feels lifeless and drab. No clanging of wooden toys on surfaces, no grunting and mumbling, no sounds of muttered Khuzdûl Bilbo can snatch scraps from.

Fili and Kili return every other day or so to play with Gimli and, whenever Gimli isn’t around, have Bilbo help them with their homework. On a few occasions, they also use Bilbo’s shop as a hideout again and Bilbo allows it benevolently, but only when making them promise to behave themselves.

Thorin also returns, if on a way less frequent basis, and Bilbo adds the following things to his collection: a walnut sapling, a dozen seeds for a fruit called melon, and a special kind of pumpkin that grows long, thin and green. Despite his air of importance and sometimes impolite demands, Thorin is gentle with Bilbo, patient and eager to do business. Bilbo doesn’t understand it, probably never will. He has very little to offer to Thorin in terms of agricultural contribution for Erebor. Even less so as company and yet, Thorin’s visits draw ever longer, turn into lengthy conversations over tea about Thorin’s travels to the South, Bilbo’s nightmarish memories of the one year the Brandybucks resolved to win the biggest-pumpkin competition, their shared disdain for lengthy baths. Thorin is one to carefully layer his words, but with an ale or two under his belt, he turns into a delightful storyteller. Bilbo on the other hand has to restrain himself not to babble. He isn’t usually one for thoughtless rambling either, but with Thorin, everything in him wants to burst forth. 

There’s a draw there, the same draw that has Bilbo anticipating Thorin’s visits and falling into a state of dampened spirits when he leaves. Bilbo finds himself hoping to bump into the dwarf when he runs errands around Erebor, finds himself wanting to find him and talk about the different varieties in apple trees depending on the altitude they are grown at, ask him about the royal gardens of Minas Tirith, or if that doesn’t suit, ask him to talk about anything at all. But Bilbo doesn’t, he is patient and waits for Thorin to turn up at his door with another treasure in his hand. They share a drink after. And so on.

Eventually, the dragon comes up. Bilbo does not dare to ask questions and Thorin relays the tale of its attack in a detached manner as though he, similarly to Glóin, was not there that day. Bilbo can see in his eyes that he was, can see the tears shimmer there, unshed and yet so easily conjured at the mere mention of the beast.

“Who did you lose?” Bilbo asks then.

“My brother,” Thorin replies, though not right away. Two weeks have piled up like rubble from an earthquake between question and answer, between Thorin and Bilbo. “His name was Frerin.”

Thorin remains Bilbo’s only faithful customer, but he also becomes a friend, something Bilbo can rely on.

Life adheres to routines for a while and Bilbo revels in that. Although progress is slow, he gets used to that and with every day that passes, his ache for home dulls a little. A month passes by in a heartbeat. Another month is well on its way without any disruptions. Until, inevitably, the next page of this story is turned.

Chapter Text

Bilbo never tries the nettle tea with Gimli again, but whenever the dwarf gets whiny or fidgety, Bilbo serves him chamomile with a spoonful of honey he bought from the elves that come to the market in Dale every other week which works wonders for Gimli’s nerves though not for his foul tongue.

It is on one such occasion when Gimli sits on his favourite spot on the rug, clanging together two wooden miniature soldiers and Bilbo pulls close a stool to put the cup of tea on, that someone clears their throat noisily.

“What in Mahal’s good name am I witnessing?” Thorin asks. He’s leaning in the doorframe, having discarded his usual cuirass and fur collar for a simple dark blue tunic that hugs his biceps just so. His hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and the crow’s feet around his eyes are deep as he laughs. “Are you minding Glóin’s son?”

“Thorin! Come in, it is lovely to see you,” Bilbo replies with earnest glee.

“Pah,” Gimli says.

“Do you have something to say to Thorin?”

“Only that he is uglier than a goat’s behind.”

“Alright, that is enough,” Bilbo says and points his finger at Gimli. “Apologize right now.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Gimli, that was very discortious of you.”

“I don’t care,” Gimli rages and throws the two soldiers. “I don’t care if it was impolite, I don’t care that he is a false prince, I don’t give a fly’s fart about any of it.” They bounce off the walls and their little weapons break. Then, he pushes over the stool. Tea spills everywhere, speckling the walls, burning Bilbo’s ankles and he hisses. Thorin dives for the flying cup and catches it just so without landing face-first in the shelves.  “You are stupid. Both of you are stupid.”

“Gimli son of Glóin,” Thorin thunders as he builds himself up before the child, arms crossed over his chest and Bilbo shrinks back, but Gimli remains unimpressed, chanting insults first in Westron, then in Khuzdûl. At least Bilbo assumes that’s what they are and he is at least somewhat in awe by Gimli’s - as well as Fili and Kili’s - immunity to Thorin’s imposing rage. 

“I’m so very sorry,” Bilbo says and tugs at the cup until Thorin relinquishes his hold on it. It is cracked down the middle, useful to hold seeds at the most now. “Truly sorry. Why don’t you come back after closing hours, Glóin has usually picked him up by then.”

“Usually? Do you mean to imply this is a regular occurrence?”

Gimli spits something more in their language - Bilbo can make out ‘how’ and ‘work’ and something that definitely alludes to a lack of intellect -  and Thorin has had enough of it. He bends over and grabs Gimli by the armpits, holding the spitting and kicking dwarf as far away from his face as possible.

“I shall return shortly,” Thorin says to Bilbo, then rushes off with Gimli airborne and screaming. Bilbo blinks. Heaves a weary sigh, and cleans the mess Gimli made, then slumps on one of the benches. At least Thorin has come back to trade, which means progress, which means… Bilbo forgot what it all means. If he even has a purpose anymore. He crosses his arms over the table and puts his head down, cheek against his forearm and stares into his shop. More than half of his original inventory remains on the shelves and no matter how much Thorin… Thorin…

“OH!” Bilbo exclaims and smacks himself with the hand he isn’t laying on. He badly wants to swear, but the respectable Baggins in him forbids it. Gimli is right. He is stupid. Bilbo raises his hand to smack himself again, but it is caught mid-motion, held in place as Thorin takes the seat opposite Bilbo. He lets go and a fragile silence ensues, so fragile that Bilbo has to break it.

“So… you are royalty,” he says and folds his hands on his lap, thumb tracing where Thorin’s skin touched his. Is this what it all means? Falling for a dwarf? Bilbo isn’t quite as romantic as all that, and Valar know he has no chances with a dwarven prince of all people, but… Thorin is not like other dwarves. He is attentive, polite and intelligent, determined and strong, and - apologies to the race of dwarves at large - beautiful. Very beautiful.

“I thought you were aware of that,” Thorin replies.

“Not the extent of it. I assumed… it’s quite silly.”

“What did you assume?” Thorin pries.

“I assumed you were the minister of agriculture,” Bilbo admits and earns himself barking laughter. He hides his face in his hands, attempts to anyway, but Thorin is quick to pry them away and pin them to the table with his own. They are big enough to completely cover Bilbo’s and the casual intimacy of it punches the breath out of Bilbo’s lungs. He scowls.

“The minister of agriculture? That is preposterous.”

“It was heavily implied.”

“It was not even lightly implied, not one bit. There is no such thing as a dwarven minister of agriculture. Admittedly, most of my knowledge concerning plant life was rehearsed and much thanks to the royal head gardener for that.”

Rehearsed? Royal head gardener? Oh, this is making Bilbo’s head spin faster than the wheel of fortune at the autumn harvest festival. 

“Hmm. One question,” Bilbo says. He wants to pull his hands away, they are getting hot and sweaty under the oppressive weight of Thorin’s.

“Anything.”

“Are you Fili and Kili’s father?”

“What? Mahal, no. That particular woe fell to my wretched brother-in-law, may the Great Smith carry his soul somewhere where someone can appreciate his sense of humour,” Thorin says with a knowing smirk, thoughts darting through memories Bilbo doesn’t share in. “They are my sister-sons.”

“And I put them into their place before you, oh dear,” Bilbo cries out quietly. How he would like to hide under the rug and never have to look Thorin in the eye again. But Thorin’s smile softens around the edges and hearing him speak feels like Belladonna putting a warm blanket over him when he’s fallen asleep reading in the garden again. Safe. Being cared for.

“Master Boggins,” he says and shakes his head. “Bilbo. I can count the people who dare to put Fili and Kili into their place on one hand. Up until recently, there were only two whose reprimands they actually heeded. I am not offended, I am impressed.”

Impressed. Bilbo blinks. Scratches his neck and pulls his curls over his ears to hide his flush.

“Did you… want to trade seeds by any chance?” Bilbo asks. “Or was that also part of the pretense?”

“I did not mean to deceive you, truly.”

“But?”

“But I did not want to disappoint you either. You have been… how do I put this without sounding ridiculous.” Thorin breaks off and smoothes down his beard. A few curls have fallen from his ponytail while returning Gimli to his father, and he looks radiant. Kingly. “You have been a positive presence, not just for the young ones. Which is, in fact, the reason I sought you out today. I have a proposition to make.”  

---

“A teashop?” Bard asks around a mouthful of potatoes and Marie smacks his arm with her cloth napkin. It isn’t the first time they have all dined together and Marie invites Bard frequently, claiming that without a wife or children to care for, he won’t eat regular meals and so it falls to her to make sure he gets a proper supper at least once a week. “You mean like a tavern?”

“The idea is similar, yes. People - dwarves that is - would come in and have a cup of tea, be able to order sides. Little sandwiches, biscuits, fruit, the like. It would be a place to have little moments away from the daily bustle Erebor. Which also means no weapons, no fist-fights, and a strict no tolerance for insulty policy.” With the notable exception of one young dwarf. 

“Neutral ground… Do you think that’s even possible?” Bard keeps shoveling food into his mouth, chases it down with wine he brought, hyperfocused on Bilbo, and Bilbo shrugs, picking at the fried asparagus on his plate.

“I haven’t been doing business, I have been babysitting their youngest. Besides, it was Thorin’s idea.”

“Prince Thorin?” Marie chimes in and now it is her turn to look incredulous, a little funny for how it contorts her wrinkled features.

“I-... yes, him. In my defense, I only learned of his status today. He tells me that I am a positive presence - not that I have the faintest notion of what that means - and that he will help me fulfil the trading contingent my father set for me if I help him get this teashop running.”

“Is it dwarf-exclusive, this teashop?” Bard asks, sucking on his fork which earns him another smack.

“I have no clue,” Bilbo sighs. No clue at all. He agreed to help Thorin steer this new course because it was the fastest way to finally get Bungo’s task completed and, yes, because Bilbo is a little lovestruck and a lot altruistic. Talk about offering his services too generously.

“I like a good cup of tea,” Marie says with a distant look in her eyes. “Peach was my Everik’s favourite. Do you sell peach tea?”

“We don’t sell anything quite yet, but I will convince Thorin to put it on the menu.”

“First you defy Thranduil, now you speak of the crown prince of Erebor as though he is your personal friend,” Bard muses. “You are a curious fellow.”

“Would you believe me if I said it was all quite unintentional?” Bilbo says and takes a sip of the beer Marie served with dinner. It is warm, bitter, and it eases the knot of nerves in his stomach enough that he will manage a good night’s sleep at least.

“I would.”

It is after dinner that Bard pulls out a set of hand-painted playing cards he got gifted by one of the dwarves he referred to in their conversation with Thranduil, and coaxes a game or ten from Bilbo over more beer and by steadily dwindling candlelight. Marie turns in early, but that doesn’t deter the bargeman and by the end of it, Bilbo is elated from alcohol and joy. At least he has made one normal friend around here.

---

When Bilbo enters his shop the next morning, it is not empty. Dwalin paces the length of the rug, having exchanged his usual hammer for a much bigger one that looks like smashing in skulls is child’s play, like it was made to decimate armies. Its edges are shaped like ram’s horns and spikes run around the handle.

“Dwalin,” Bilbo says on a light note as he approaches the warrior. He is taller than even Thorin and wears a constant scowl, even more so than usual. Dwalin squints down at Bilbo.

“Do I know you?”

“Ah.” He would not, would he? And what is Bilbo supposed to say?

Yes, hello, of course, I have been following your frequent fights with your nemesis for weeks now, and to be frank, I think you two should simply kiss it out.

“No,” he says when Dwalin’s squint turns into a full-force sneer. “Not yet. Bilbo Baggins, pleased to be at your service.”

“Hmmh. Thorin’s hobbit.” With that, Dwalin takes up his huge hammer and walks to the back of the shop, behind the counter and proceeds to smash it against the wall, cracking and splintering it.

“What in Ilúvatar’s good name are you doing?” Bilbo asks, hands to his hips and tapping his foot.

“Fret not,” Thorin laughs, appearing out of nowhere at Bilbo’s side and Bilbo’s poor heart can’t take any more of dwarves. What about his routines? Why do most one of them always turn up and disrupt it all with a mood or a hammer swing?

“I find that very difficult seeing as he is smashing in the shop I have been renting,” Bilbo mutters in reply.

“He is tearing down the wall so we can expand it. Not enough room for more tables in here so I asked Bofur to relocate. He was happy to share the space his brother Bifur rents down the hall, claimed he did not much enjoy working alone anyway. “ Bilbo doesn’t quite believe that Bofur agreed as readily as Thorin implies. It doesn’t matter, neither can argue with Thorin’s authority and Bilbo resolves to serve Bofur free of charge if he ever finds himself in the mood for tea. Dwalin roars and brings the hammer down, stone splintering everywhere.

“I wonder if he chanced upon Esta today,” Bilbo muses.

“Must have been a particularly nasty fight,” Thorin says under his breath before he joins Dwalin, an equally large and uncharacteristically plain hammer in hand.

Somehow Bilbo doesn’t believe they had their fight yet.

As they tear down the wall, Bilbo darts in and out between them, salvaging what he can from the carnage that ensues. His cups and his stove which have been sitting under the counter, the candles and, most importantly, the wooden chest he’s been keeping all of Thorin’s traded goods in safe for the sapling that occupies Bilbo’s lodgings at Marie’s more than he himself does.

Dwalin’s mood seems to lift with every swing of his tool, every deafening crack of stone that makes Bilbo flinch and shudder and press his palms over his ears. He would love a window to throw open right about now, a gale to carry out the dust, but as it stands all he can do is to have a wet rag at the ready and wipe it all down again, and again.

It takes hours. Bilbo supplies ale from Bombur’s, he spends half an hour or so over the calculations of how to stretch his somewhat thinning finances to cover for double the rent, then another hour explaining to Glóin that he cannot take Gimli today. Glóin is so persistent though, that Bilbo ends up carrying the young dwarf around on his hip which gives him backaches soon enough. Fili and Kili make themselves known by leaving rude - and grammatically incorrect - notes in Westron tacked to walls or clothes whenever no one is looking, and when Bilbo catches them, he makes them carry the rubble out of the shop and deposit it instead.

When Dwalin is finally gone, the worst of the mess cleared up and Gimli returned to his family, Bilbo collapses onto the floor where the rug is usually spread out and leans back against the shelf, Thorin following suit.

Esta pops her head through the window not five minutes of laboured breathing later.

“Usurper,” she snaps, then proceeds to let out a tirade in Khuzdûl which Thorin takes in stride, head leaned back and one knee propped up. Even slumped, he looks kingly and Bilbo doesn’t understand how he mistook him for anything other than that.

Thorin’s reply is measured, voice rumbling so deeply Bilbo can feel it vibrate through his own body. He should get up and brew a cup of tea for Thorin, but even though he hasn’t lifted a single hammer, his lids flutter shut.

“What’d she say?” he asks, reality fuzzing out around him.

“She asked after Dwalin. Apparently…”

---

Bilbo wakes up in an unfamiliar bed at an undefinable hour, blinking awake. His bones are heavy, his head even heavier as he looks around. The room is furnished with the barest essentials, a simple wooden nightstand and an open shelving unit hewn into the wall. No rug, no wall hangings, not even a hearth. A single torch has died sometime during the night and Bilbo realizes he must have fallen asleep in the shop. Which means…

“Oh Valar save me,” he mutters, face heating.

On the nightstand, Bilbo finds yesterday’s arithmetics as well as a note in ink, painted in flourishes over the numbers:

Forgive the drabness of our guest quarters, I was too fatigued to carry you all the way to my own. Leave financial concerns to me. - Thorin II son of Thráin II, your humblest servant

“Ridiculous.” More so than the odd formality, the letter pits Bilbo’s pride as a respectable hobbit against his common sense. In the end, it was only at Thorin’s behest that Bilbo agreed to the teashop and the dwarf has an entire mountain’s worth of gold at his beck and call and that is the only reason Bilbo agrees.

---

For a week or so after that, life becomes a whirlwind, in force so opposed to the wind-still calmness of before that Bilbo cannot help but let himself be whirled about, this way and that. Marveling and heeding Thorin’s practicality, exceedingly strange for a dwarven prince.

While Bilbo leaves it to ho, to install barrels as water tanks, to set up an oven for the baked goods Bilbo wants to put on the menu, and to carve said menu into the wall about the now expanded counter space, Bilbo focuses his own time on two things:

Firstly, decorations, which are handled in an afternoon of wandering Erebor’s shops, new tapestries and a second rug as well as candelabras that glimmer a soft copper colour something he can only afford due to Thorin’s generous funding. He does not find potted plants, but wooden facsimiles, whittled and painted by hand and buys enough to give the impression of a little underground garden.

And secondly, the gathering of varieties of tea. While some of them he can easily procure in and around the mountain, the more exotic - and to Bilbo’s mind tasteful ones - prove to be tricky. So, Bilbo spends long hours crafting a profusely apologetic entreaty to King Thranduil in which he proposes a trading agreement after all, one that is generous to the elves and their wares and one he has a hard time convincing Thorin of. The dwarf doesn’t buy how additional types of tea will make a difference in their grander mission of re-forging the ties of brotherhood within Erebor, but Bilbo sets his mind to it, and in the end even Thorin believes it is absolutely essential. Fili and Kili play their part in this, having blossomed in their rhetoric skills under Bilbo’s continued tutelage.

It comes together gradually, slowly, but once an invitation arrives at Marie’s, stamped with Thranduil’s royal seal, deals are made faster than Bilbo can keep up with.

And then, just like that, they are done.

---

“It is beautiful,” Bilbo breathes when he enters through the old door, the one on Bofur’s side having been mortared shut. And it is. The counter has been expanded so that it is double-sided now, with plenty of space to pass from one room into the other. Thorin has carved an additional window where the wall separating the two shops used to be so that plenty of torchlight from the alley falls into the room. Adding to the two original tables carved into the wall at the back, Thorin and Bilbo procured half a dozen free-standing sets of tables and chairs carved from a similar hue of cherry wood as the door.

“It is,” Thorin says, placing a warm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder which makes Bilbo lean closer to him. “It is missing one last flourish though. Dwalin!”

At that, Dwalin walks in with a shining golden bowl the size of another table tucked under his arm, trailed by a dwarf with a star-shaped hairstyle that carries a wooden stand and a handful of logs that still smell like resin and pine.

“My brass bowl,” Bilbo breathes, mouth agape and looks up at Thorin.

“Your brass bowl,” Thorin agrees. “Do not assume I would forget such an important detail.”

Bilbo reaches up to cover Thorin’s hand with his own and turns away to watch Dwalin and his companion set up the bowl under the newly-hewn window. Next to him, Thorin gives a stifled squeal.

“Are you alright?” Bilbo asks absent-mindedly, too enraptured by the flames that spring up as Dwalin kindles the fire. Immediately, the whole teashop is flooded with warmth and light that dances off surfaces and gives the tapestries a new shine. It is breath-taking.

“Oh, Bilbo,” Thorin replies and it remains all he says as they both watch the sparks flicker and dance.

It is much later, when Bilbo is tucked into his bed at Marie’s and counting stars through the open window, that he realizes just what he did. And what it might mean or not. And just how quickly and involuntarily he has fallen for Thorin.

Chapter Text

There is a knock on the door as Bilbo is tallying up his earnings, and with them Glóin’s taxes, one evening. The stove is cold, most of the candles burned to stumps and even the big fire in the brass bowl is down to simmering coals. He glances up to see a short dwarf with starkly white hair and an equally light beard that parts at the bottom peek his head in.

“Good evening,” he says.

“Good evening,” Bilbo replies. “I am afraid that we are closed.” And what a blessing that is. Bilbo cannot claim to be overrun by customers, but ever since making the switch from Baggins’ Seeds and Saplings to Baggins’ Cup and Kettle, there has been a palpable influx of dwarves of all ages and professions. Hesta and Glóin were his first real visitors, both fans of the cinnamon-suffused black tea Bilbo procured from a traveling merchant on Dale’s market, and they told friends and friends of friends. Fili and Kili dragged in their mother Dís who waved away Bilbo’s humbled bows with a wiggle of her fingers. Even the two solemn guardsmen showed up after their shift one day, mute and stoic, leaving it up to Bilbo to coax a smile from them with sweetened apple tea. Work has become far more exciting, but draining at the same time.

“Forgive an old dwarf the intrusion, but I was caught up with overseeing drills all day and could not make it any earlier. Might I ask for one small cup of your recommendation?” The dwarf toddles up to the counter and his smile is kindly, his eyes wise. And really, who is Bilbo to deny him? Marie will have Bard for company, and Bilbo can continue his calculations while the dwarf has his tea.

“Most certainly…?”

“Balin, son of Fundin.” A flourish, a bow, a concert of creaking bones. “At your service. I know who you are, of course.”

“Of course,” Bilbo agrees as he sets to relight the stove and fill the kettle from the tank. He picks out his favourite mix of fennel and caraway and emerges from under the counter with a furrowed brow. “You do?”

“Indeed. The halfling who has been staking a claim to our future king.”

“Staking a claim?” Conveniently, Bilbo has to turn away from Balin to put the kettle on the stove and so he can avoid looking him in the eye and lay bare how that insinuation makes his throat tight and sweat break out over his forehead. Has anyone noticed his feelings for Thorin? And if so, will they shun him for them? Throw him out, drive him as far away from Erebor as Middle-Earth allows? Bilbo doesn’t want to leave, not yet. There is a lot yet to do. Teas to try out, letters to teach Fili and Kili, insults to be thrown at by Gimli and time to spend with Thorin. Time to spend wanting Thorin. Bilbo can admit that much to himself, he wants Thorin and it aches. So badly that he wakes up from fevered dreams and mourns over the

“Thorin has been spending more time with you than with his advisors and close friends recently. Me being one of them, I simply had to see for myself who you were.”

“I apologize if I have caused any inconveniences,” Bilbo says. The water comes to a boil then and Bilbo pours it over the plants he has tucked into one of the small round mesh balls Thorin had made for this exact purpose so that the leaves don’t swim freely in the tea.

“Not at all,” Balin says and reaches over the counter to pat Bilbo’s cheek. “You have been a balm.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You will figure it out,” Balin says and takes the cup with a grateful nod. “I will let you get back to your tallies. Thank you for the tea.” Something silver flashes through the air and a coin lands in the middle of Bilbo’s writing. Balin settles at one of the original two stone tables in the far corner and pulls out a small book which he opens on a marked page. Quiet falls, easy quiet, and Bilbo resumes the task at hand. Even though Balin seems unreadable, Bilbo finds his presence comforting, soothing even.

“Goodnight, master Baggins,” the old dwarf says eventually. “You have not seen the last of me.”

Is that a threat or a promise? And does the difference really matter?

---

Maybe it is the lasting high of getting to see Thorin every day, maybe it is just the general feeling of walking on clouds from being in love, maybe Bilbo finally found his rhythm in and around Erebor, but a week or so later, he resolves to finally poke at the sleeping bear, so to speak. He has often felt that Dwalin and Esta’s fights were one of the most pressing symptoms of the feud and perpetuated its other manifestations in a way that was too influential. If Bilbo really wants to help in getting these differences settled, he has to bring the two together in the only way he knows how. Over tea.

“Do you really think it is as simple as that?” Thorin asks when Bilbo saunters into the shop in the morning, arms full of rhubarb for a cake he plans on serving throughout the remainder of the week, announcing his grand plan.

“You believed in it for the rest of the lot,” Bilbo replies. “Why shouldn’t it work for them? See it this way, they have all their tools and materials set out, all it takes is a small spark to light the forge and get them going.” Thorin raises his brow at the wonky metaphor, but agrees tentatively.

“How are we to accomplish this?”

“Simple. You approach Dwalin, tell him there is a matter in the shop that absolutely needs his attendance. He listens to you, it should be simple.”

“Are you asking me to lie to my most esteemed commander?” Thorin asks though not without amusement in his voice. Bilbo shrugs.

“It is not technically a lie. I will draw Esta by alluding that I have some vital information on a plot by Dwalin and his men. It should be easy.”

“And could lead to them wrecking the entire shop.”

“I’m aware of the risk,” Bilbo mutters and looks around his precious little space. Then he gives Thorin a shy smile. “But it is one I am willing to take. Do you trust me to handle this?”

“I do.”

---

After ushering Esta into the shop, Bilbo turns the ‘open’ sign they put up on the door to ‘closed’ and shuts the door behind himself. Inside, Dwalin has jumped up from his table, hands close to the pommel of the sword on his hip. Esta bears a similar blade in her function as head of guard for Náin’s soldiers - in almost every regard Dwalin’s mirror, even in the defensive stance she falls into upon seeing him.

“No,” Bilbo says and walks up to them, pressing his palms to the shoulders of both dwarves to keep them apart. The growls swell and fall, swell and fall, but nothing more happens. “No fighting in here. I have a lot of very precious merchandise and Thorin would be furious to find all his meticulous handiwork has been destroyed by the two dwarves who should very well set examples for all of Erebor. SIT.”

Their eyes are locked in some stare-off, their only measure of combat left, but they heed Bilbo’s command. Dwalin picks up the chair and they do as they are told, soldiers at heart or perhaps Bilbo does have something about him that makes dwarves want to listen to him. Whatever that may be.

Bilbo sets up the stove and prepares three cups of rooibos-vanilla tea, a rarity that cost him half a month’s rent, much to Thorin’s dismay. He serves it with buttery biscuits and sets down a little bowl of sugar in the middle of the table. Most dwarves forgo it, but Bilbo has found the odd sweettooth among Durin’s folk. When that is done, Bilbo draws a third chair close to the table and sits, folding his hands on the table before him. He crinkles his nose. Blows on his tea. Waits out the inevitably tightening tension.

“Alright, halfling, what do you want from us?” Dwalin presses through gritted teeth eventually. Esta’s eyes dart to Bilbo who takes up his cup and sips carefully, then back to Dwalin. A twinkle in Dwalin’s, a minute victory. Bilbo ponders, as he has done all morning, about what would be the best way to handle this.

Their language is that of brute force, but that is not very hobbit-y nor respectable. Bilbo’s language is that of subtlety and politeness, but he fears that that will be lost on them. Brunt words then, harsh and heavy and direct.

“I want you to stop fighting,” Bilbo says plainly and both pairs of eyes snap to him, the shocked part of their lips hidden in their beards - his gruff and messy, hers intricately braided and oiled to a shine. “Now I know what you are going to say. Esta you will say: how can I stop fighting Dwalin when he so obviously keeps plotting my early demise? It is simple. He is not. In fact, I believe it is quite the opposite, he wants you to stick around for as long as possible.”

“I will not stand-” Dwalin roars, but Bilbo holds out a hand and shushes him with a gesture. Dwalin grumbles and bristles and glares, but he keeps quiet. Perhaps some of this is Thorin’s influence and if so, Bilbo is grateful for it.

“And you Dwalin, you will claim that Esta is a danger to Erebor’s security, a witless fury, and needs to be put into her place. When, in reality, it is only your assumptions in this regard that make her so. The two of you have to understand that there is no danger, not from each other.”

“Preposterous,” Esta snaps and crosses her arms.

“Outright lies,” Dwalin agrees and shoves a biscuit into his mouth. Crumbs sprinkle his beard.

Bilbo tries not to smirk. This is going exactly as he hoped it would. Already, they have found common ground in rejecting his words. And if he plays this right, they will leave here having forgotten their will to fight each other by means of fighting a common enemy. Luckily, Bilbo has protection from them or he would never put his neck out like this.  

“Not at all,” Bilbo says. “Do you two know what we say where I come from?”

“No,” they both say in unison, quickly lock eyes with fire raging between them, then back to Bilbo. Expectantly. Bilbo waits, draws it out, takes a sip of tea and is happy when they do the same.

“We say that two hobbits who are secretly in love with one another will squabble and tease each other, occasionally even fight. I wonder if the same applies to dwarves…” Bilbo stares at the ceiling and taps his chin. Dwalin goes through a series of strangled noises while Esta is eerily quiet. Until she stands up abruptly.

“Thank you for the tea,” she says, gives a stiff half-bow, then rushes off.

“What by Mahal’s balls has gotten into her?” Dwalin asks weakly and reaches for another biscuit.

“Enlightenment,” Bilbo says happily and takes his cup back in hand. The seed is sown, now to nourish it.

Chapter Text

The shop runs more than smoothly, it is nearly booming. Between early noon and closing time, most tables are occupied and Bilbo is busy with brewing and baking most of the time. At first, a few arguments break out between the two factions, but Bilbo is quick to shut them down with all the magnificent rage he studied among the dwarves and reminds everyone sternly that there is a strict no-fighting rule in the teashop. From then on, no one dares to even look at their enemies funnily and Bilbo may be imagining it, but he feels like some of that calm attitude seeps out into the mountain. Especially with Dwalin and Esta now seen in stilted conversation and bashful togetherness rather than the frequent fist-fights, Erebor seems to breathe a sigh of relief.

Fili and Kili play waiters whenever they are in one of their calmer moods and Hesta starts to work at the teashop full time which makes it far easier with minding Gimli. All of this is fine, encouraging even.

It is after hours, when Bilbo is alone and cleaning up, that the exhaustion festers into dread and homesickness. Bilbo lost grip on how he has stayed at Erebor for. And not a word from home. Not one.

Granted, he wasn’t good about writing himself, but he would have expected at least an inquiry after his health. Bungo would not have the patience to wait months and months to hear from his only son and not even Belladonna . The nagging thought that they stopped caring, forgot him slips

“Bilbo,” Balin says one evening as he’s returning his cup and grabs Bilbo’s free hand, the one he isn’t using to prop his chin up onto in order to stare into space. Bilbo blinks and gives Balin a tired smile. “I know that look on your face.”

“What look?” Bilbo asks. He tries to shake and shake himself out of his melancholy reverie, but it clings to him like burdock.

“Woebegone, nostalgic… homesick.”

“To be honest with you, Balin, I feel like I am withering.”

“Flowers need sunlight,” Balin agrees.

“I’m no flower,” Bilbo snorts. “But you are right. We hobbits we were not made for perpetual darkness. I… miss my garden. I miss my books and my parents and yes, even the constant squabbling of my numerous relations. They aren’t unlike you, but well…”

“They are your family,” Balin says, nodding.

“They are.”

Balin lets go of Bilbo’s hand and pats his cheek.

“No one will force you to stay, you know? Not even Thorin, no matter how heartbroken he will be.”

Heartbroken. Bilbo doesn’t know what to do with that. Did he, at times, feel like Thorin might return his feelings? Yes, he did. Still does. But all of the budding affection threading between them like fragile grapeshot vines, has been overshadowed by their efforts and Bilbo did not have the time nor energy to dwell on them. Thorin, for his part, never made a move.

“How heartbroken we would all be,” Balin adds quietly.

“I have played my part,” Bilbo says. “I want to go home.”

“Then you should. Why don’t you let me do the rest of the cleaning and turn in early?”

Bilbo nods a quiet thank you, and picks his coat off the rack, waving Balin goodnight.

“You are committed to your plan?” Thorin says as Bilbo leaves the shop and Bilbo jerks back, heart beating a stampede. Thorin’s leaning next to the door, hands tucked behind his back, looking glum and tired. He has been working too, tireless in supplying Bilbo with , in advertising for the shop and, most importantly, in trying to convince his grandfather and great-cousin to meet over a cup of Bilbo’s best. That’s what all this is for, in the end, getting dwarves to sit down and make peace.

“Hesta has a handle on things. And it seems that little Gimli has developed a fondness for baking. I am sure that there are enough dwarves capable of continuing on,” Bilbo says, shrugging. When his eyes meet Thorin’s, a vice settles around his chest and breathing becomes hard. His nose prickles, emissaries of tears he doesn’t want to shed. Doesn’t know what to shed for. “I never came here to run a teashop.”

“You could stay to run a teashop,” Thorin retorts.

“I want to go home,” Bilbo says and finds it is the truth. He wants his father’s lectures and his mother’s kisses, he wants to help Master Gamgee weed the flowerbeds, and live out his own feud with the Sackville-Bagginses over the family inheritance. He wants great-aunt Pansy’s honey cake. Because each iteration of it he baked for himself and his customers has come up short. It is that thought that makes the first tear slip loose and before Bilbo can stop it, he is full out crying, silent little sobs into his own handkerchief.

“Fine,” Thorin sighs at last. “I cannot stop you, nor will I begrudge you your decision. You have held to your end of the agreement and I shall hold to mine.” He doesn’t reach out to Bilbo. He walks away and that is how Balin finds him once he too leaves the shop. Abandoned and tearful and aching with every fibre of his being for his bed in Bag End.

---

On the evening before Bilbo’s departure, when Hesta has received enough instruction to continue on without him, when his bag is packed, and most of the farewells said, Bilbo closes up the shop with a funny feeling in his gut. Thorin has been awfully quiet all day long and he is silent once more as he gestures for Bilbo to follow him. They don’t take the usual route up to the entrance hall, but another stairway at the other end of the hallway that is narrow and winding, up and up, until they emerge onto a landing that is occupied by a singular dwarf in full armour guarding an ornate stone door.

“Lord Thorin,” she says on a nod and steps aside. Thorin returns her nod, but not a word of acknowledgement passes through his teeth.

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, but even his smile feels tight and the feeling has spread throughout his upper body. Dread and sadness, apprehension of whatever Thorin is up to. He leads Bilbo along a deserted hallway with few doors and fewer torches.

“Where are we?”

“My family’s quarters,” Thorin says as he pushes open one of those doors. Bilbo expects something grand and . The reality of Thorin’s room is somber, but not unfitting of the dwarf beside Bilbo. There is a large rug that covers most of the floor, a tall, stone-carved four-poster with golden highlights. To the left, a small working nook has been set up, shelves and a desk on which scraps of wood and metal sit. A number of weapons line the wall opposite the door, but drawing most of Bilbo’s attention is a square table in the middle of the room.

On top of it sits a wooden chest with many a little drawer, carved with vines and blossoms of all kinds, some of which bear coats of silver and gold for accents, some of which have gems for petals. It is quite breathtaking.

“My parting gift,” Thorin says. “It holds samples of all the seeds we have in the royal collection.”

Bilbo gapes. Both the fact that Thorin offers up his plants so readily and the fact that he does so in the most ostentatious, beautiful way.

“Where did you get this?” Bilbo asks, pulling out a compartment labelled ‘berries’. It is divided into nine different sections, all of them filled with seeds. The other compartments are similarly constructed and Bilbo pushes them all closed, turning to Thorin.

“Made it myself, of course,” Thorin snaps as if the very notion of buying such a piece of art offends him. It likely does.

“What marvellous folk dwarves are if even the most noble of them can craft things of such beauty.”

“What a disgrace to my people I would be if I couldn’t present my beloved with a hand-made gift,” Thorin retorts. They both take a long breath to process this, staring at each other and as Bilbo can feel his entire face flush, Thorin’s eyes widen. It looks so comical that Bilbo has to giggle which is the decidedly wrong reaction because Thorin’s entire expressions shutters over. “A slip of the tongue,” he says, crossing his arms, and turns away. Bilbo snorts and puts down the chest.

“You’re thick even for a dwarf,” he says, rounding on Thorin. He can’t quite keep the grin off his features and as Thorin sees, his scowl deepens. Splaying both his palms over Thorin’s linen-covered chest, Bilbo rises to his toes and cranes his neck so his lips brush Thorin’s cheeks, then graze the shell of his ear. “If it was a slip of the tongue, it was a most welcome one.”

He sinks back down, satisfied when Thorin stares at him, cheeks and nose beet-red.

“And if it was the truth?” Thorin asks numbly. Bilbo lets his forehead sink to Thorin’s sternum and wraps his arms around the dwarf’s middle, leeching off his warmth and surprise. Something bright and crackling, like a wizard’s fireworks, goes off in Bilbo’s chest when Thorin hugs him back, hugs him tight, hugs him and hugs him and doesn’t let go.

“If it was the truth I would draw out this moment to the end of all days.”

And Bilbo does, for a time. They stay in their embrace, Thorin’s face pressed to Bilbo’s hair, his sturdy arms a cocoon around Bilbo’s body, their heartbeats very nearly synchronized.

 Alas, it cannot last.

“I have to pack,” Bilbo says when they part and every word grates on his tongue, roughens up his throat. “But please, let me invite you to dinner. My landlady, Marie, makes a fantastic roast beef in the oven and there will be excellent company. We could go for a stroll by the lake after… watch the stars, be quietly ourselves for a moment.”

“I do not usually-

“Please come.”

“... do you have to go?”

“I have made my decision,” Bilbo says, pressing kisses to Thorin’s knuckles.

It is final, he thinks.

Nothing is final, Thorin’s eyes plead with him.

“Please come,” Bilbo repeats. He drops Thorin’s hand and picks up the chest.

“Bilbo,” Thorin calls after him, but Bilbo can’t glance back as he heads for the door of Thorin’s room. He can’t look back, his decision is final and if Thorin is willing, this is not their last goodbye. “Bilbo, please.” He can’t look back. He is a hobbit is a Baggins is a Took is an adventurer. Not a dwarf. He doesn’t belong here and not even loving Thorin can compensate for that. Nor can Thorin loving him back. Home calls to him and Bilbo means to listen and follow.

All adventures have to end eventually.

---

“Bilbo, wait!”

Footsteps pound after him and Bilbo is being whirled around as Thorin grabs him around the waist with one arm and cradles the back of his head with the other hand, then dips him low for a kiss. It lasts an eternity and not long enough because Thorin has broken away before Bilbo can think to reciprocate. He just clutches the chest tight and blinks rapidly up at Thorin who has tears brimming in his eyes. Thorin. Tears.

“Farewell, my beloved,” Thorin says. He bends forward and places another, much chaster kiss on Bilbo’s forehead. Bilbo nods. Thorin watches him walk away until a turn separates them for good.

---

The walk through the harshly geometric halls of Erebor feels like a trudge to the gallows, the executioner's tools tucked into the chest Bilbo carries before him as though it can shield him from the excruciating pain of leaving. Not just Thorin, but everything and everyone.

Before he can even leave behind the royal quarters, he is held up by Dáin who is all decked out in his armour and whose hair is styled into small spikes today.

“Bilbo,” Dáin says around a kindly smile. “I see that me dear cousin has outdone himself.” He points to the box.

“It is a piece of art,” Bilbo agrees, sniffling slightly. Dáin’s smile deepens and he ruffles Bilbo’s hair gently.

“He will miss ye,” Dáin says. “As will I. Alas, such is the way of the world. Come visit sometime, will ye?”

“I will.”

“Then all that is left for me to do is thank ye. Profoundly. Ye have done in a handful of months what we could not in years. Thanks to ye, Erebor may return to its glory days and be a home for all of Durin’s folk.” Dáin doesn’t bang his forehead against Bilbo’s, he gently lets it drop until they touch and Bilbo’s throat cinches tight at the gesture he now clearly recognizes as affection.

“It was my honour,” Bilbo whispers. “May our paths cross again.” He barely manages those words, then pushes past Dáin, scurrying to get away from the hazard of bursting into tears. In doing so, he stumbles right into the next dwarf, by the landing of the stairs that would lead him into the main hall. Glóin stands, wringing his hands and his eyes glisten as he sees Bilbo.

“Glóin,” Bilbo says, voice wonky. He takes a breath that shudders and trembles through his whole body.

“Bilbo,” Glóin says with such fondness that the first tear is shaken loose. “I had hoped to catch you before you left.”

“Hmm,” is all Bilbo can reply to that or risk sobbing. Glóin’s usually so haunted features are slack, almost relaxed and he puts his hands to his hips.

“I would have brought Gimli, but he locked himself into his room, screaming how stupid you were for going away.” Bilbo laughs, tears spilling down his cheek. He can imagine it perfectly, the little red whirlwind raging and throwing things. “He will understand, eventually. As do I. I would have understood if you had turned on your heel the minute you set foot into this mountain.” Glóin chuckles and shakes his head. “Somehow, you managed to finally make Erebor accept us. Make this a place I want my family to live in. I can never repay you and I cannot thank you enough. Have this instead.” Glóin pulls a thin golden chain out of his pocket, a necklace, at the end of which dangles a pendant, a double-sided axe around the handle of which flowers tangle and bloom. It is beautiful. “Gimli and I made it together. We are not the best smiths, us descendants of Gróin, but we gave it our all. May I?”

Bilbo nods, too stunned to make any more noises, and sniffs loudly, biting his lip to keep from howling as Glóin fastens the chain around his neck. “That is all. Safe travels, Bilbo and may Mahal watch over you.”

Bilbo nods and continues on his way. He spots Dwalin and Esta in a far corner of the entry hall and is grateful when all they do is wave at him. He cannot stand another farewell, is already crying little rivers down his flushed cheeks as he walks on. Away.

And through his tears and woes, Bilbo begins to see a scene unfold. It is not an unlikely scene, in fact it has become common over the past weeks. Him and Thorin behind the counter, shoulder by shoulder as they prepare tea and snacks, talk to customers. Thorin is stressed, but elated and Bilbo feels more alive than he ever has in the Shire. Gimli sits on his favourite spot on the rug, clanging wooden soldiers together and next to him at a table, Fili and Kili are hunched over scraggly lines of the Westron alphabet. Hesta scurries past tables, stops to drop a kiss onto her son’s head. There is a warm fire in the big brass bowl around which Dwalin and Esta stand, cups in hand, conversing quietly.

It is a lovely scene altogether, one that plucks at Bilbo’s heartstrings effortlessly.

Yes, he misses his family and his comforts, but ultimately, they made him sluggish and lazy. He never… wanted anything other than adventure, and adventure he found to be thoroughly exhausting. Now that he has this - a shop, friends, someone to love, a purpose - Bilbo finds the prospect of returning to a life of easy lounging strange. Like he has eaten a chunk of cheese that was just a day overdue and sits funnily in his stomach. Gives him hiccups. Bilbo stops to set down his chest and paws at his eyes. He is halfway between Erebor and Dale now, by the outpost where Thorin intercepted him what feels like ages ago.

He looks at the city of Dale, quiet for the lateness of the hour. Looks back at Erebor, the silent mountain exterior hiding the hub of life in its bowels. A yearning so intense it drives more tears to Bilbo’s eyes grabs his heart and when he picks the chest back up - Thorin’s handiwork warm in his grip, the love he poured into it still tingling on Bilbo’s lips - it is with a renewed kind of resolve. He will stay. He can stay. This is his home.

Chapter Text

Regardless of his spontaneous decision to stay, Bilbo left unpacking once more to the next morning when he wakes up from decisively too many hours of sleep. He was too exhausted from the emotional drama. But before he gets a chance to do just that, there is a commotion from downstairs, more feet than just Marie’s and a raised voices that discuss in alternating Westron and what Bilbo thinks are snatches of Sindarin. He is quick to dress and sneak downstairs where a most unusual sight greets him. Marie is wagging her knife at Thranduil who is occupying her dinner table, legs crossed and unconcerned. Bard is all that stands between them.

“What is going on?” Bilbo asks and enters the room.

“Elves!” Marie cries. “Elves in my home! Cannot trust them! Never do any good, the whole lot of them!”

“Calm down, please,” Bard says. “Why don’t we all sit down and talk about this?”

“How could I,” Marie says, but she lets Bard guide her to a seat and settle down under insistent promises that he can vouch for Thranduil and that this doesn’t concern her. With Thranduil’s gaze fixed on him, Bilbo quickly loses interest in the exchange and focuses on the elf in his glittering silver robe.  

“Bilbo Baggins,” Thranduil says smoothly. “I have come here on a mission of great importance.” With that, he draws a folded piece of parchment from an invisible pocket in his robe and hands it to Bilbo.

“What is this?”

“Just read it, it will become evident then.” Bilbo does so with long fingertips. He wants to unpack and get back to Erebor already, delay no longer. But when it is his father’s neat cursive that speaks up to him from the parchment, Bilbo can feel the colour draining from his face.

To Thranduil, King of the Wood-Elves and Lord of the Greenwood,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and your kingdom flourishing. My name is Bungo Baggins of Bag End, a hobbit of the Shire. Some months ago, my son Bilbo passed through your realm on his track to Erebor. In a foolish moment of fatherly indulging I have sent him there with a mission to trade seeds and saplings. Certainly, you are wondering how this concerns you.

You see, for some time now, I have been sending letters to my son. At first, it was to ask after his health and his progress. Then, to ask him to come home. Bilbo never answered and I have reason to believe that he is entrapped in that mountain.

In previous letters, I have petitioned King Bard of Dale multiple times, but received no replies from him either.

That gives Bilbo pause.

“You are the King of Dale?” he asks wearily. He isn’t even surprised just… tired. So very tired of it all.

“I am,” Bard admits sheepishly. “I was waiting for you to realize, but you never did.”

“I see.” Bilbo returns to the letter.

This is why I am now writing to you, nay, pleading to you to look after my son. I am most worried for his well-being and it is my deepest wish to see him safely home. Will you do this for me? I will make sure to compensate you properly. You are my only hope.

With much regards from your humblest servant,

Bungo Baggins

Every word is its own punch to Bilbo’s gut, knocking the wind out of him. His father has to be in fits over his safety. But Bilbo wrote… did he not? Did he… never write? He doesn’t even remember.

“You are here to convince me to go?” he asks, addressing Thranduil.

“I am here to remind you of your family which you have so readily abandoned. I am here to remind you what you owe them,” Thranduil says. “There are few agonies in this world that surpass that of losing a child.”

“My bags are packed,” Bilbo concedes because how can he not? Thranduil is right, Bilbo abandoned Bungo and Belladonna and great-aunt Pansy and uncle Bingo and grandpa Mungo and the whole lot of them. They raised him. “I will be but a moment”.

“Very well,” Thranduil says and gets up. “I will meet you by Bard’s barge.” With that he breezes out of the room and, after an apologetic shrug, Bard after him.

“You will go after all?” Marie asks, blinking rapidly.

“... I have to.” And so he does, walking onto that boat.

---

Bilbo doesn’t notice the barge come to a standstill until Thranduil enquires after the reasons. Both elf and hobbit look at the bargeman/apparently King of Dale who is leaning on his steering stick in a very-casual, very-Bard fashion, half a smirk tugging on his lip.

“Well?” Thranduil asks, strutting to the back of the barge, robes hushing over the wood behind him. His head is constantly tilted back and he manages to make even the most basic of trading vessels look like a royal ferryboat. Bard’s eyes cling to Bilbo’s, even as Thranduil’s hand covers Bard’s.

“You know,” Bard says quietly, almost too quietly for Bilbo to hear. “He is the only one who looks more miserable leaving Erebor behind than when going there.” Thranduil follows the jerk of Bard’s chin and looks at Bilbo who is still slumped on his box, Thorin’s chest clutched tightly, his only lifeline in the ocean of grief and guilt he’s trying to stay afloat in. Thranduil’s icy stare wavers, melts. A good indication of just how miserable Bilbo must look.

“He managed what countless others could not,” Thranduil agrees softly.

“And what is that?” Bilbo asks.

“Befriending dwarves.”

“Hey,” Bard protests. “The dwarves love me.”

“The dwarves love you because you are lenient with import taxes,” Thranduil mutters.

“The dwarves love me because of my charming personality. It worked with you, did it not?” Bard’s hand turns and entwines with Thranduil’s who sniffs through his spluttering.

Bilbo smiles to himself, glad for the spot of sunlight in this drab scene. So, he was right that there is something more to these two than meets the eye. Two kings that have to restrict their affections to stolen, hidden moments so no one can see. Bilbo, as has become apparent, does not count in that regard.

“It matters not,” Thranduil says. “Let us make haste, there will be hail later.”

“I have not seen a corn of hail in all my time here,” Bilbo says.

“See? He didn’t even get the full Erebor experience yet. Look at him, Thranduil. What is the word of his father against the pure agony of tearing him away from a place he so obviously belongs?”

“He is damaging the political climate.”

“Improving it more like,” Bard mutters. “Besides, the deals he facilitated for you are more than profitable.”

Bilbo watches this exchange wearily, torn this way and that. Bard is right, but so is Thranduil in a way.

“Even so, family loyalty is a value I would defend to my death,” Thranduil goes on. “He owes it to his people to return to the Shire.”

“And he owes it to himself to stay.”

Bilbo glances between the two. What it comes down to is trust. Bard has been nothing but a friend - if one who likes to leave out the odd detail about his person - ever since Bilbo arrived whereas Thranduil has been less than cold. The decision isn’t easy, not like yesterday when his whole heart was swayed to staying. But he makes it nonetheless.

“Bard,” Bilbo says. “I would like to ask a favour of you.”

---

Bilbo runs and runs. He runs all the way from the port, through the winding passages of Dale and then free of them. Runs to Erebor, runs through the gate - not that the guard-dwarves care much - and down the steps, down, down, past a startled Glóin and blathering Bofur, right through the door of the teashop. He is panting heavily as he brakes, hands on his thighs and the two dwarves in attendance jerk around to look at him. One of them is Hesta, rummaging around behind the counter with a cleaning rag in her hand and beads of sweat on her temples as well as glistening in her wispy beard, and the other is Thorin. Thorin is seated by the counter, both elbows on it and with deep lines under his eyes. Eyes that widen as he sees Bilbo.

“I almost-” Bilbo gasps, then stops. “I would have- But. I-.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, almost as breathless as Bilbo himself and slips from his stool. He approaches Bilbo carefully, as though he is a deer that might startle, and Bilbo holds out one finger, gulping in more air.

“Excuse me,” Hesta says. She is smirking as she brushes past them and out of the door on some made-up errand or other.

“Bilbo.”

Bilbo straightens himself, finally able to breathe through his nose again and all but barrels into Thorin, arms wrapped around his neck. Thorin gives a surprised laugh and catches him, of course he catches him, around the waist, burying his face in Bilbo’s curls.

“I thought…”

“Me too,” Bilbo whispers and shifts to kiss Thorin’s neck.

“What made you change your mind?”

“Everything. Everyone. I was wrong, Thorin, so wrong. I do belong.” Bilbo draws back an inch or so to capture Thorin’s lips with his own in a sweet, sluggish kiss that brims with relief and affection.

They aren’t given a lot of time to reunite, however, because Hesta’s departure is quickly followed up by the arrival of Thorin’s sister Dís who looks stately in spite of her red-faced fury and is ushering her sons before her. Fili and Kili sniffle and huddle together, eyes red-rimmed and shining with yet more tears.

“What is-” he starts, but Dís is quick to interrupt, pointing at her sons.

“Explain to Bilbo what you have done,” she snaps and the young dwarves flinch.

“I-” Fili starts, then hiccups a sob.

“We-” Kili tries also. They grab each other’s hand and take a deep breath before speaking again. “... we intercepted the letters your parents wrote to you.”

“You WHAT?”

“We meant no harm,” Fili says hastily, drawing his brother close by the shoulder.

“And it’s not like we ignored them altogether.”

“Yes! We answered him. It’s not our fault he didn’t believe us.”

“You…” Bilbo falls silent and pinches his nose with two fingers, eyes squeezed shut. Beside him, Thorin is making awkward little grunts, caught halfway between chuckles and growls.

“We tried our best,” Kili adds quietly, then yelps. Bilbo’s face goes slack as he understands.

Oh, the foolishness of Tooks.

“You were never doing your homework here, were you?”

“Homework?” Dís asks incredulously. “These two? They hardly ever attend their lessons, it’s a miracle they managed to string together enough words in Common to finish a letter.”

“Because I taught them,” Bilbo sighs and drops his hand. He looks at Fili’s fiendish grin, Kili’s big eyes. He can’t stay mad, not with these two. But he wags his finger at them anyway, and the effect is instantaneous. They straighten up, hang their heads, wring their hands.

“You really have them on a leash,” Thorin murmurs and Bilbo jabs his elbow at him. Then he sighs again.

“You two understand why what you did was wrong, yes?”

“Yes, Mr. Baggins.”

“You understood all along, I suppose. Don’t ever try and do something like this again. Postal secrecy is a serious matter, wars have been started over less.”

That has them both look up hastily, red speckling their cheeks.

“We wouldn’t-”

“We couldn’t-”

“We never meant-”

“Nor intended-”

“What did you hope to accomplish with this?” Thorin cuts in. He steps closer to Bilbo and places a hand at the small of his back. Bilbo’s body floods with the calm of a late spring day when everyone is down at the Green Dragon and he has the whole Shire to himself. Just him, the stars, and a good pipe full of Old Toby. Bilbo leans into Thorin’s gravity and raises a brow at the young dwarves.

“Well…,“ Kili starts, then looks to his brother. “Well. Fili, you tell them.”

“It’s just, we don’t want you to go. We’ve been having so much fun together. And we overheard Ma’ talk with Grandfather about how happy Uncle Thorin seemed recently. And we agreed. He works so hard to try and get everyone to get along, he deserves to be happy. You make him happy, Mr. Baggins. And you make us happy too. You make everyone happy, even Dwalin the big meanie, and we promise to never call you Mr. Boggins again and not play any more pranks and we’ll even attend our lessons if you please, please stay.”

Bilbo’s heart melts at these words and he tries hard not to grin. Meanwhile Thorin gives a stifled little sob and Bilbo yields under the emotional force of that. He steps forward and opens his arms, nearly stumbling backward as Fili and Kili barrel into him before he can even reply.

“You can call me Mr. Boggins,” he says as he ruffles their heads and they bury their faces against his shoulder and giggle. “But you can also call me Bilbo.”

“Uncle Bilbo?” they say in unison, looking up and the spark of mischief has already stolen back into their twinkling eyes. Bilbo huffs in astonishment.

“Let’s not rush things, shall we?”

“I wanna be a flower girl at the wedding,” Kili says.

“I’ll forge the rings,” Fili joins in, beaming.

“No one said anything about weddings,” Thorin interjects and pulls the two of them away from Bilbo by their collar. He deposits them by their mother’s side and whispers something in Khuzdul. Bilbo has gotten a good enough grasp of it to make out the expression of gratitude. He smiles to himself, fidgeting with his buttons to quench the sudden urge to grab Thorin by his braids and kiss him silly.

And once Thorin has ushered his family out of the shop and closed the door behind himself, Bilbo tip-toes up to him, taps him on the shoulder, and does just that.

“Are you?” Thorin asks when they part, breathless, eyes glittering brighter than the gems that line his grandfather’s throne. Usually, Bilbo would despise the comparison, but there is no flower vibrant enough, no star in the sky brilliant enough to suffice.

“Am I what?” he asks and nuzzles Thorin’s bearded cheek before craning his neck to kiss Thorin’s temple.

“Staying.”

“I thought my dramatic entrance earlier today would have rather driven the point home,” Bilbo chuckles, sinking ever deeper into Thorin’s embrace. He can feel Thorin’s heartbeat harder than the giant hammers down in the forges and his own aims for that same intensity. He could burst with love, not just for Thorin. “You know… Thranduil told me I do not belong here. And for the longest time, I agreed. This shop is a safe haven, but it is also outside. Away from the usual bustle. I thought it was a sign of how different I am and it is, but I stopped believing that is a bad thing.”

“You belong,” Thorin says with his face buried in Bilbo’s curls so that the next words come out muffled, dulling the edge of the threat. “And if that prissy princess dares to make any more claims to the contrary, I will personally sneak into his lair and prune his head of hair.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but that way lies war and I’d rather we progress on the road to peace.”

“So you’ll stay?”

“Thorin…”

“Just say it. Look me in the eyes and say it.”

Bilbo draws back with an incredulous laugh. He reaches up to cup Thorin’s face and places a fluttery little kiss on his lips, holding the dwarf’s gaze.

“I will stay.”

Chapter Text

“You know,” Bilbo says into the deep, all-encompassing silence of Erebor at night. His fingers, which have been drawing circles on Thorin’s bare stomach, still. “Fili and Kili have been calling me Uncle Bilbo for a long time now.” And they have been. Close to nine months now, almost a year has passed since Bilbo arrived. Not that he is counting, except he is. He started a journal to chronicle his life in Erebor. One day, he will return to the Shire, for good perhaps, perhaps not, and have a full and illustrated account of the life of Bilbo Baggins, hobbit among dwarves, to present to his family.

For now it includes his recount of the first few months, the drama around his planned departure and most of the letters Bungo, Belladonna, Fili, and Kili have been writing. Since then, Bilbo has been in frequent contact with both his parents and has visited them once for a couple of weeks in which he allowed himself to be a child again, be fussed over and cared for. He even managed to pry Pansy’s secret recipe out of her with a promise to bring her renown all over Middle-Earth. But towards the end of those fourteen days he missed Erebor and his dwarves, one dwarf most of all and he was relieved to return to the daily routines at the teashop, the messes Fili and Kili make, the stilted dinners with the extended royal family - made possible after Thorin and Dáin finally convinced Thrór and Náin to sit down and have that accursed cup of tea together - and the relaxed ones with Bard and Marie once a week. The long nights spent with Thorin. Relieved and happy to find that he gained a family, rather than lost one.

“But I am not their uncle, not yet,” Bilbo continues eventually when Thorin gives a questioning grunt.

“No,” Thorin whispers. “Do not dare-”

“It’s a matter of bureaucracy, really.”

“A fortnight.”

“What?” Bilbo asks.

“Forget about this conversation, let us talk about it again in a fortnight.”

At that, Bilbo props himself up on his elbow and glances down at Thorin who bears the indignant scowl of a dwarf hurt in his pride. Bilbo dips down to kiss Thorin’s nose and giggles when Thorin goes cross-eyed.

“So that is why you have been spending all those hours in the forges. You are ridiculous, Thorin, quite ridiculous. I have no need for a ring.”

“And what if I have a need to put one on you?”

“Possessive,” Bilbo chides gently and when their lips meet, Thorin surges up in a demonstration of just how possessive he is. Bilbo melts under his insistent kisses, his firm touch. He would let Thorin put a ring on him, he would let Thorin put a thousand rings on his fingers if it made the dwarf happy. “But,” he says when they part, breathless and floating on happiness. “Since I have to put up with your family every day of my life, we will visit mine for the wedding. My great-aunt Pansy makes the sweetest honey cake…”