Chapter Text
BAG END
Gandalf was, in fact, knocking on a the door to an empty smile a week ago. A week ago, he came to inform Bilbo Baggins of a certain number of guests that would be arriving and the infamous and famous Storyteller of Hobbiton was not there.
After having been informed that the “Storyteller is onna ‘nother ‘venture an’ ‘e won’t be back forever an’ miz Lob’lia says is disgrateful!” Gandalf mentally calculated the odds that Bilbo would not be in a week from now. He thanked the lad and set off again after scratching a mark into the master of the house’s freshly painted round, green door. Bilbo would be there. If he wouldn’t, Belladonna never had a problem arriving home after one of her adventures to Gandalf or Gandalf and Bungo, depending on the trip.
Now here they stand, seven days later, standing outside on the front step as if they were selling buttons at the door. Dwalin’s been knocking the longest and no one’s happy about it, either. They’re hungry, and it’s late in the evening, too. Thorin would indeed arrive soon and Master Baggins is not here.
Gandalf decides to take action, and unlocks the smial, bypassing the lovely little magic traps that are surely designed to keep out someone who isn’t Gandalf. The decision made, Gandalf sts about moving everyone back out of range.
In short order, the company is eating, the fires have been aggravated into mini infernos, and Gandalf is sitting in his favorite chair, smoking. When Thorin comes, he sets about eating, first (the delay means that there is food left, despite his getting lost) and inquiring after their host, second. Said host is not here, as Gandalf informs Thorin.
“Where is he?”
“Apparently, Master Baggins has a tendency to… wander. He could be anywhere right now.”
“And you didn’t make sure he’d be here?”
“Well I assumed he would be. The lad never went far when Belladonna was alive.”
“But you didn’t make sure.”
“Aye,” the voice, seemingly thrown, does not belong to any that Thorin knows. It’s nearing midnight, and this is the first surprise. “He did, indeed, fail to make sure I’d actually be here when my house is raided and my pantries utterly destroyed by dwarves.” When the shadows in the doorway move, Thorin catches his first glimpse of his mysterious burglar.
His curls, darker in the light of candle and fire, are a mix of colors, ranging from sable to honey, along with a few strands of near white gold. Large, but partially closed dark eyes sit above slightly softened cheekbones. A small, rose colored mouth is quirked on the right side in a smirk beneath a button nose.
As he steps further into the light, Thorin can see he’s wearing a tunic and leather boots over leggings and a long sleeved undershirt. The tunic draws up high around his neck in a mandarin collar, the over all snug fit of the tunic outlining the fact that he wasn’t quite what other hobbits were, girth wise.
All of this is black and partially hidden by an open leather coat. The large hood was thrown back. It had obviously seen a great deal of wear and tear, but cared for in greater measures.
“Bilbo Baggins, master of Bag End, at your service.” Thorin stands, careful not to knock over his chair.
“Thorin, at yours.” Bilbo stands for a moment before he raises his chin.
“I take it you’re all off to an adventure?” The dwarves look at eachother.
“What do you know of that?” Bilbo steps farther into the room, coming to stand at the empty chair at the head of his large dining room table.
“I know plenty of things about adventure. In fact, the reason I haven’t thrown you all out of my house for entering without permission-”
“But Gandalf let us in!” Bilbo, thoroughly interrupted, turned his mesmerizing gaze from Thorin to a dwarf with nary a beard.
“You believed him when he said it wouldn’t be a problem, didn’t you?” The dwarf nodded.
“Kid, that was dumb. Take care to mind your manners in all things.” Abruptly Bilbo turned back to Thorin.
“As I was saying, the only reason you’re all not scrambling for a place to sleep is because I’ve a personal investment in a certain adventure that should be happening any time, now. I take it you mean to reclaim Erebor?” If the dwarves weren’t already suspicious of their strange host, they certainly are now.
“How did you know?!” Dwalin bursts out (Bilbo does not yet know his name, but he will). Bilbo pulls back his chair, content to sit down, the cane no one seems to have noticed clasped in both hands and resting between his large boots.
“Gandalf did contact you, then.” Thorin’s voice is a low growl, but it doesn’t faze this hobbit. “You lied.” Bilbo’s voice, when he does deign to respond through the shouting of the other members, is sharper, and has lost it’s pleasant air for a more biting one.
“Wrong, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, Heir Apparent Under the Mountain, Gandalf did not tell me. I already knew and believe me when I tell you that my presence here is solely for your benefit. I have been waiting. Had you taken any longer, I would have come for you myself.”
“Who are you?” Thorin’s eyes are dark with barely contained pride and the need to draw his sword.
“Nobody. And everybody. Anybody, really.” That pleasant voice is back, and Bilbo now sits back in his chair, elbows one the armrest, and fingers crossed and steepled in front of him. “But let me tell you something useful. I’m the only one that can take care of Smaug for you, and I won’t wait much longer to do it. You have a contract, I’m going to sign it if I’m satisfied with it. Then I’m going to take care of my stuff and my home, pack, and make sure everything is in a place it can be left in. Then, we leave on your quest, and you actually get your homeland back without the deaths of innocents on your hands. That stone you want can’t do any of that. It’ll cost you an army, at the minimum, to go about it your way.”
“And if I refuse to hire you, Master Nobody?” The title is mocking, but the question sincere.
“Then you’re out at first light, when I perform the first of my errands. I do everything but the contract part, and then I’m gone. I reach the mountain weeks ahead of you, do what I came to do there, and leave the mountain to whoever gets there first. It’ll probably be the elves.”
“How would you get there weeks before us?”
“That’s my secret. It also doesn’t matter. Decide. Am I with you, or not?” For a long moment, the murmurs died away as Thorin and Bilbo look at each other; the dwarf with the tragic past and heavy burden, versus the hobbit with no past at all or even a name that isn’t fabricated.
“With us. Balin?” The old, white haired dwarf unrolls the contract in front of their soon-to-burglar. He takes it and reads at a fast pace, then sets it down.
“Add a clause that says should any of you betray me, as a group or as an individual(s), then I retain the right to walk away at any time, no matter how long ago the betrayal was or the circumstances.” Thorin’s head nods, a glimmer of a smile on his mouth. This hobbit is not the grocer he was expecting.
“Very well. Balin will have it ready by the time you are set to leave.”
“Then it is a pleasure. Will you all be sleeping in the same room or separate ones?” Thorin glances at his men.
“Together.”
“The main room is big enough. It also has a desk, Master Balin. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He makes for the door, stops, and turns back.
“Gandalf? Don’t let people into my house. I don’t even want you here without permission.” Gandalf simply nods. He almost added a comment about how Belladonna wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass, but that’s something for later.
The master of Bag End disappears into the soft glow of candles and firelight, and the Company is left wondering who the fuck they just invited to join them.