Chapter Text
It had only been a few months since Bilbo had officially taken Frodo in. The little one had just started to come out of his shell and the hobbit was still proud of the moment where he hadn’t grinned like he had just won at conkers when Frodo had called him uncle.
Night time however remained difficult for the fauntling. Bilbo was not quite sure whether it was due to nightmares, the unfamiliar environment or the ever present longing for his parents or even a combination of all of them.
He had tried to tire Frodo out before bed by playing catch around the smial — an occurrence only shared with the Gamgees, Yavanna knows what his relatives would say to that — but when Bilbo woke up in the middle of the night to get some water, he found the boy sitting on the floor in the parlour staring at his mithril shirt glittering in the moonlight.
Even copious amounts of tea or switching out the pillows and blankets on Frodo's bed had not made any notable kind of difference.
So, Bilbo had another idea: bedtime stories. Perhaps the fauntling had warmed up enough to him in order to try that. He knew that Primula and Drogo had read religiously to Frodo when he was just a babe and Bilbo had not wanted to step on anyone's toes. But something had to be done, therefore, bedtime stories.
Which is why Bilbo was dithering at Frodo’s bedside after bidding him goodnight — with a small kiss on his forehead and a gentle ruffle through the boy’s fluffy curls. He was standing there for so long that Frodo looked at him weirdly.
“Bilbo?”
That snapped him out of his nerves and Bilbo took a seat next to his nephew.
With his hands folded in his lap, Bilbo began hesitantly, "I thought we might try bedtime stories today." When Frodo opened his mouth, the hobbit added hastily, “Only I believe that it might help with getting you to sleep through the night for once.”
The fauntling frowned and turned his head away from Bilbo.
“Frodo, you know, if that continues I will have to consult with the apothecary and your Aunt Asphodel Brandybuck will have to take a look at you.”
He sniffed once and asked quietly, “Which stories?”
Bilbo huffed a laugh. “Well, you are a bit too young for my adventure yet,” he answered and patted the boy’s cheek when he pouted, “but a personal favourite of mine is Perry-the-Winkle.”
Now distracted, Frodo scrunched his nose and asked, “What kind of name is that?”
The hobbit laughed in response. “No one really knows. The Old Took used to say that some hobbit just couldn’t spell periwinkle correctly.”
“I could see a Sackville-Baggins doing that,” he murmured and glanced up at Bilbo with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. And the hobbit knows that he shouldn’t encourage that kind of behaviour but… that woman did attempt to steal his silver spoons. After all, spoons are very serious hobbit business. On top of that, he had just spent over a year burgling someone else’s silver spoons back from a worm. Or at least Bilbo was sure that in all that gold there must have been at least one silver spoon.
Perhaps something I should ask Balin the next time he comes over for tea. Surely he would know.
He nodded seriously and shared a giggle with his nephew after a moment of feigned seriousness. “I can imagine it very well too.” After a pause, he said, “Now, Perry-the-Winkle alright for tonight?”
“Yes, please.”
Bilbo made himself comfortable on the bed and gratefully accepted the blanket Frodo tugged over his lap with a smile. He wiggled a bit in place, mostly to hear the fauntling fail to stifle a laugh. Bilbo hesitated before lifting his arm around Frodo’s shoulder and could not help but preen a bit when the hobbit felt him slowly leaning against him.
But before he could get right into storytelling, Bilbo had to make sure of one thing. He leaned down to whisper, “If it gets too much, just say the word and I’ll stop, my dear.”
Frodo turned his head to hide his face in Bilbo’s shirt and the old hobbit heard his muffled reply, “Alright.”
With a slight smile Bilbo said, “Then it is time for the adventure of the troll and Perry-the-Winkle.”
His nephew perked up at that and accused, “Bilbo, you didn’t tell me there was a troll.”
“Well, I can’t go around revealing everything immediately, can I?”
“But, you just did?” Frodo asked, very much confused.
“You will see why, my boy.” He paused and waited to see if his curious boy had anything else to add. When he didn’t, Bilbo began the tale, “The Lonely Troll he sat—”
And was promptly interrupted by Frodo mumbling, “Ah, so that's why.”
The hobbit chuckled and repeated in a slightly louder tone, “The Lonely Troll he sat and sang a mournful lay: ‘O why, O why must I live on my own in the hills of Faraway? My folk are gone beyond recall and take no thought of me; alone I’m left, the last of all from Weathertop to the Sea.’”
The fauntling looked up at him and asked excitedly, slightly bouncing up and down, “Weathertop? That's right around the corner!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘right around the corner,’ my boy, but yes, it is quite near Bree.”
Bilbo continued with the story, the troll bemoaning his loneliness and how he wished his appearance would change so that people would stop closing their doors in his face. After all, he would make an excellent companion, seeing as his cooking is quite good.
“Bilbo, does that mean you are also a troll? Is that why people call you Mad Baggins?”
He stopped and replied blankly, “What.”
The young hobbit became a bit sheepish at Bilbo’s tone and rushed to explain, “Well, you just said that the troll can cook very well. You also cook very well.”
He relaxed a bit at that and sighed, “Frodo, if that were the case then almost every hobbit would be at least part troll.”
His nephew grinned triumphantly. “So what you are saying is that I could be at least part troll.”
Bilbo scrunched his nose. “Very distantly related at the most.”
He hid a grin behind his hand when he heard a whispered, “I’m going to tell that Sam tomorrow.” It will be an interesting day when Bilbo tells Frodo of the possible fairy ancestry of the Tooks.
Bilbo laid back against the bed. “Now, where was I? Right, I must go and find a friend; a-walking soft I’ll wander through the Shire from end to en—”
“The Shire? The troll was here?” Frodo cut him off again.
“He went through Michel Delving, yes.”
“That is right around the corner!” he pointed out.
Bilbo messed up his nephew's curls even more and laughed at Frodo's sullen look. “Indeed it is.”
The story continued on and the troll has one disappointing experience after another with the resident hobbits. Some surprise at seeing an old troll in the Shire is appropriate but to run home and hide underneath one’s bed… and then to throw a knife at such a polite fellow! Undeniably, very impolite.
Bilbo reached the part where the troll and the namesake of the story finally meet. “The old Troll sadly sat and wept outside the Lockholes gate, and Perry-the-Winkle up he crept—”
“Perry-the-Winkle! There he is. Bilbo, will he befriend the troll?”
“Now, you know, my boy, I do not spoil surprises.”
The troll and Perry-the-Winkle do befriend each other. And Bilbo saw Frodo grinning widely when they got to the part where the tween even gets to ride on the troll’s back and taste his delicious baking.
Frodo nodded approvingly when the troll refused the other hobbits’ demands for his tasty bread. “They don’t deserve him or his bread.”
“You are absolutely correct, Frodo. You reap what you sow. What they deserve is a good finger wagging for their atrocious behaviour.”
Alas, after describing the most delicious sounding dinner, the story came to an end. “The Winkle a Baker great became, as still is said in song; from the Sea to Bree there went the fame of his bread both short and long. But it weren’t so good as the cramsome bread; no butter so rich and free, as Every Thursday the old Troll spread for Perry-the-Winkle’s tea.”
He petted his nephew’s hair. “And that was the story of Perry-the-Winkle and the troll.”
Frodo sat up a little. "It's a bit unfair that only the hobbit has a name and the troll doesn't."
"Hm, what would you recommend as a troll name then?"
The fauntling pursed his lips and stared very focused at his bookshelf opposite from his bed. Suddenly, Frodo snipped his fingers and whipped his head towards his uncle. "Bert!"
Bilbo sat there stunned, frantically asking himself who in Yavanna's name told Frodo about the three trolls who wanted to eat him and his dwarves for supper.
Oh dear, hopefully that wasn't me, he thought.
However, he was aware that words tended to get away from him. A feat he usually prided himself on — not just everyone can talk about blackberries and end up at the local price for iron and how Hamfast should definitely write to the dwarves in the Blue Mountains and inquire whether that is in fact an appropriate sum or if the smithy in Bree is attempting to rip him off.
Hamfast didn't quite dare to do that so Bilbo wrote the letter and, after a surprising amount of fuss and fanfare about how lovely it was to hear from Thorin Oakenshield's esteemed burglar himself, found out that the price was in fact rather high and that the smith better have a very good reason for that demand.
Mostly succeeding to hide his panic, Bilbo asked, "Um, how ever did you arrive at that name, my boy?"
The fauntling thankfully did not pick up on his mounting unease and after yawning, answered simply, "That's what Merry named his rock yesterday."
The hobbit sighed in relief. "That's a very good name, Frodo. Sounds very troll-like."
More than you know actually.
Bilbo turned his head to see that Frodo had migrated to lying on his back and that his eyes were only barely open.
"I guess troll naming is very exhausting," he chuckled.
Frodo hummed in agreement and said sleepily, “Would love some of Bert's bread someday.”
Bilbo smiled. “Well, if a certain little hobbit behaves very well tomorrow and refrains from stealing Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms, then I might be persuaded to bake some bread in the evening.”
“I could do that.”
“Let’s see then what tomorrow will bring for you.” He stood up and fluffed up Frodo’s pillow — as much as he was able to with a head lying on it anyway — and tucked the blanket securely around him.
As he stepped away from the bed, Frodo spoke up, “Bilbo?”
He hummed in question as he puttered around the room, putting some toys and books away — his nephew had a tendency to be a little clumsy in the morning. Not all of them belonged to Frodo explicitly but Bilbo was willing to turn a blind eye to several of his maps lying on the floor. Not like he was any better at organising himself.
“It’s not weird that I call you uncle, is it?”
Bilbo stopped and turned around to see Frodo blinking up at him from his blanket cocoon. He smiled reassuringly and nudged the boy's foot with a hand. “No, not at all.”
Frodo yawned and beamed at him. “That’s good." He paused before adding a quiet, "Night, Uncle Bilbo.”
He could feel his eyes tearing up a bit. The hobbit tried in vain to blink them away but it was dark enough that his nephew shouldn't notice. “Sweet dreams, my dear Frodo.”
Oh Thorin, I bet even you would have melted at that.
It was the first night of many that Frodo slept soundly through the night, where not even nightmares were able to reach him.
Instead, he dreamed about being giving a piggyback ride by his uncle and giggling as he was jostled from side to side through the Shire.