Chapter Text
For him, it began with the tea.
The pale and steady stream of water gradually cleared as it filled the belly of the kettle. Precisely two drops raced down the side as Bertrand shifted the pot and placed it off on the counter to his left. He huffed through newly gritting teeth at the water seeping into his shirt from his sleeve cuff as he reached to close the tap. In a manner likely more cumbersome than graceful looking, he hauled the pot up on the stove, wiggling the kettle’s metal body until it slid and clinked as it took its place on the burner.
The gas button gets turned to on, though not without stretching his hand slightly further out than it is accustomed to. The long muscle running down from his arm and coming to thread into his fingers ached for an instant. An unpleasant warning not to overdo that type of motion.
His slippers scuffed at the kitchen floor tiles as he made his way over to the porcelain cabinet. Only reaching as far up as the lowest shelf, he plucked an earthenware mug by its handle and carefully slid it from its place amongst its brethren. Once the body of the mug was secure in his hand, he retreated back to place it at his spot on the table.
The spoons were, thankfully, far more cooperative. A teaspoon came along with minimal clinking, and graciously accepted its temporary place besides the mug.
Now, the more important matter of the whole operation was to be decided. Water would boil the same every day, but it was not every day that he managed to snatch fresh strawberry-jam filled shortbread biscuits from the bakery before they had all but been pilfered to non-existence by other hungry customers.
The kettle began to huff, then puff and then whistle, just in time for him to snatch a tea bag from the box presiding eternal on the countertop. The bag had no sooner hit the bottom of the cup that he’d whirled around to pluck a cloth with which to in turn give him grip on the kettle.
The steam gave a final wheeze before quieting down, then streaming upwards as the water itself flowed down to seep through organdy and dried leaves. The copper pot was then placed on the tile countertop to cool and wait for cleaning.
At last, Bilbo had little more to do than nudge his chair a bit so and settle down. Letting his body drop into the comfort of the kitchen chair, he could finally let out a small sigh for another task done with.
Now, if only his cast-trapped wrist would stop itching with the vengeance of an anthill, he would truly want for nothing.
“Drat. I forgot the sugar.”
And so was the daily routine for afternoon tea, slightly altered by the temporary indisposition of one of his arms, but enduring nonetheless.
Now that the academic year was wrapped up, he had little in terms of obligations to take care of and much more time to spend at his home.
His own house. So peaceful, and quiet.
Peaceful, quiet and empty now, save for himself.
So really, it all began when in a bout of extraordinarily un-Baggins-like behaviour, Bilbo had sprained his wrist.
“Bah! Too much sugar’s bad anyway. I can have a cuppa without it.”
For years now, Bilbo had felt an odd sort of itch that he could only scratch with pen on paper. He’d counted himself among the incredibly lucky, to not only have known all the comforts his life could have offered since his most tender years, but to have been so content with all of it. The loss of his father had been brutal. Everything was done within a single week. Officially, his mother had lived five more years after they’d returned Bungo Baggins to the earth. He alone was not reason enough for her to stay longer than necessary. He had been independent and an adult for a handful of years before Belladonna and Bungo were reunited. Bilbo knew the pain of loosing them would be fading with time yet never forgotten, but the memory of their love was strong enough for him to make his way into the world with a semblance of peace.
After all, his parents would hardly wish for him to stagnate and grow complacent in misery.
Any time not spent at the university, correcting papers of simply maintaining his house was spent writing, or more to more accurately describe it, trying to write his own stuff. Until rather recently it had been just that, a great deal of stuff with little inter-connection, but as he’d grown accustomed to point out over the years, patterns had begun to emerge. Long-winded descriptions of scenic views, natural environments edging out of reality and into the fantastical. Oddly homely locations whose warmth almost seemed to radiate off the page once they became solidly anchored there.
Going back to read what he’d written about these places made him feel strangely nostalgic now still, but that feeling was dull and tame compared to what he remembered experiencing the first time each had been put down on paper. Finality, grief, longing, joy, hurt, all wrapped up in a confusing bundle that had been his first motivation to look into getting an actual book published. He’d had a handful of poems in college journals and article or two running after each other, but had yet to take on such a big project. Perhaps putting it into the world, letting go of it and letting it rest in the hands of others would put his own mind at ease. He wouldn’t know if he didn’t at least try.
He'd cobbled together some extracts and had gone off in search of a publisher, and after a number of disappointing 'we’ll-call-you-back's with no follow-ups and straight up receiving no answer, he finally landed an interview with a small publishing house. It struck him as a bit strange that they’d be interested; after perusing a bit it turned out most of their stock was manuals and guides of sorts. Perhaps branching out in fiction was one of their own project?
In a series of extremely civil emails, Bilbo and the owner had arranged to meet about two weeks after their exchange at the Erebor Publishing inc. offices. That had been only a day prior to Bilbo’s impromptu visit to the doctor for his uhm, wrist issue.
“I say, Mister Baggins, however did you manage that?!” his elderly practitioner had chided while he attempted to immobilize Bilbo’s hand in the right position. Despite his best efforts to appear composed, Bilbo couldn’t help the uncomfortable twitches of his arm. It did hurt, after all.
“Well, ermh, you see, I was trying to clean up a bit. I had a few armfuls of boxes strewn around and I might, ow, have drastically underestimated the weight of one of them.” He explained, and though he doubted the older man had heard all of that, he still received a clipped hum in response, so it was good enough.
A splint on his writing hand, a bottle of painkillers and some strong recommendations to not overdo it for a few weeks later, Bilbo returned to his house and found himself a bit clueless about what to do next. There were still boxes lying around, yes, and those could be nudged out of the way with relative ease could be taken care of at a later date, but he was left with a more pressing matter to consider.
Yes, Bilbo had been able to present a solid pitch and a sample chapter of his project via email to Mr. Durinson, but it was also true that he might have… over-elaborated to cover up what he hadn’t done yet. It had already been extremely generous of Mr. Durinson to offer his help despite what little material he’d initially been given, and Bilbo did not wish to give him reason to change this decision.
While he couldn’t exactly handwrite his first drafts for the time being, and while typing solely with his non-dominant hand would take some getting used to, he was certain he’d be able to pull something together.