Chapter Text
Bilbo
“Fetch another jar of jam, will you, lad?” Bilbo asked as he kneaded the pastry crust. The sun shone through the round kitchen window and birds sang outside and the kitchen smelled of baking things. Truly an idyllic morning, and all the moreso thanks to the young tween at his side. Frodo’s curly brown head had spent most of the morning bent studiously over the crusts he was braiding. Bag End had been Frodo’s home for less than a fortnight, and Bilbo still could not quite believe this was real.
He’d been alone in Bag End for so long, and he did not mind bachelorhood one bit (as he was obliged to insist quite loudly and decidedly too often to the Widow Bracegirdle), but the smial was altogether too large for one hobbit and young Frodo was the ideal addition. He was equally willing to follow Bilbo traipsing over the Shire as he was to sit quietly in the study and read, and he was proving an apt and eager student of Sindarin.
Indeed, Bilbo could hardly believe his luck at finding a young hobbit so perfectly compatible with his own idiosyncrasies, not to mention—
Crash!
Bilbo jumped ten meters in the air, or so it seemed, and spun around. Frodo stood at the mouth of the pantry, staring down at a mess of blood-red raspberry jam spilled on the floor amongst shards of glass.
Grabbing a towel from the counter, Bilbo hurried to the pantry. “Careful, lad! Don’t move, and I’ll get this cleaned up.”
“I’m so sorry,” Frodo said quietly, head still down.
“Nonsense! It was an accident.” Bilbo crouched down to carefully, carefully gather up all the shards and wipe away the sticky jam. It took a good few minutes to clean up the area enough for Frodo to safely escape the pantry.
Frodo would not meet Bilbo’s eyes. “That was the last of the raspberry jam.”
They had already made several pastries filled with strawberry jam, and Bilbo had been quite looking forward to adding raspberry to the collection. But he smiled broadly anyway. “Not to worry. We can always get more, can’t we?”
Now Frodo’s head tipped upwards, and for one brief moment, his eyes met Bilbo’s. But before Bilbo could decipher the look there, or even determine if the look warranted deciphering at all, Frodo had slipped past him to recover his place at the counter.
They passed the rest of the morning finishing strawberry-filled pastries, and not another word was said about the broken jar.
~
The jar of raspberry jam was not the only item to suffer from a spate of carelessness on Frodo’s part. Two days later, Frodo accidentally spilled ink on Bilbo’s rug in his study. Then it was a bowl of soup left boiling on stove until it boiled over.
Bilbo met each incident with a patient smile, though inwardly he struggled with frustration. After all, wasn’t this simply part of raising a young tween? And while he had no doubt that Drogo and Primula had done a fine job parenting Frodo for the time they’d had, he could hardly expect the Brandybucks at Brandy Hall to give Frodo the sort of attentive upbringing the lad deserved, what with all the chaos going on in that huge smial.
But he’d watched Frodo carefully whenever he came to visit. Other than the mushroom-stealing (incidents Frodo had not yet admitted to, but Bilbo had heard all about it from Saradoc), Frodo had always seemed remarkably thoughtful and conscientious, at least compared to other tweens. So this sudden carelessness seemed decidedly out-of-character.
“Well, Bilbo,” he told himself, “perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps he was so thoughtful and conscientious at Brandy Hall only because he didn’t feel that accidents would be tolerated.”
Yes, it must be because he felt safe with Bilbo that he was willing to risk accidents.
Comforted by this conclusion, Bilbo met the next mishap (one of Bilbo’s favorite quills snapped when Frodo applied too much pressure during a writing lesson) with a determined smile…though it may have perhaps looked more like a grimace.
It was (or had been) a very nice quill indeed.
~
A few broken things were really not too difficult to bear. Bilbo had an overabundance of things, after all.
Rather more difficult was Frodo’s sudden forgetfulness of tasks. First it was the plants on the sill, withering because Frodo had forgotten to water them. This wasn’t altogether terrible—Bilbo was fond of the plants, but they were more decorative than useful, and Ham Gamgee was able to coax some of them back to life anyway.
But then Frodo returned from a day at the market, sunkissed and smudged with dirt and bearing every item Bilbo had requested except for eggs: the eggs that Bilbo had planned on using in various ways for their next several meals.
“Really, Frodo,” Bilbo burst out. “You remembered everything else!”
Frodo refused to meet his gaze as he set the other groceries on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”
“And there’s no time to go back for them today. The market will be closed before we get there!”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, but—” Bilbo cut himself off and took a deep breath. “It’s fine. Perhaps the Gamgees can spare a few eggs. If not…well, we’ll make do.”
Frodo shot him a look from under dark brown curls. Again, the look was impossible to interpret, though Bilbo was beginning to suspect interpretation was probably fairly important. But before he could think more of it, Frodo was vanishing into the front hall. “I’ll ask the Gamgees.”
The next sound Bilbo heard was the front door opening and closing. He cast his eyes up at the ceiling.
Had he been this forgetful as a tween? However had his dear parents managed?
~
“Frodo!” Bilbo threw his coat onto the rack and stomped down the hall in search of his errant nephew.
Frodo’s head popped out of the study. A book dangled from one hand. He took one look at Bilbo’s face, and something strange happened to his own expression, though Bilbo was rather too agitated to note the significance of it.
“Would you like to know who I ran into today?” Bilbo demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Daffodil Hornblower, who was quite hurt that we missed her birthday party last week without even a note explaining our absence. Now, the Hornblowers are a decent family, and I would never knowingly or willfully insult them, and I seem to recall giving you very specific instructions to mail her a letter explaining we would be traveling on business and unable to attend. Do you remember that letter?”
Frodo looked down at his toes, but not before Bilbo caught a faint blush spreading across his features. “Yes.”
“Did you mail it?”
“I—I suppose not, Uncle.”
Bilbo gritted his teeth. “It’s one thing when your forgetfulness inconveniences me, but it’s quite another when it offends our friends.”
Frodo’s quick upward look granted Bilbo a glimpse of a deepening blush. “I’m so sorry. I’ll—I’ll send an apology letter right away.”
“Nonsense,” Bilbo muttered. “I’ll see it to it myself. That way I can at least be sure it gets done.”
~
A coldness seemed to creep through the smial after that. Frodo became tense and withdrawn. Bilbo was at a loss. What, had the lad never been rebuked? Certainly not; Bilbo knew quite well that punishments at Brandy Hall were more often corporal than verbal. And Bilbo could hardly bring himself to apologize when he himself had done nothing wrong. But that left him with no idea what to do to repair things between them.
Bilbo continued inviting Frodo to trek about the Shire, and Frodo continued accepting said invitations, but the would-be adventures were near-silent. And Bilbo endured several uncomfortable evenings of attempting to teach Frodo Sindarin, lessons during which Frodo no longer asked his curious, insightful questions. It was more bearable for the two of them to retreat to their separate books and pass the evening shielded by pages. At least then the silence was not so unfitting.
Bilbo lay awake at night trying to puzzle out the problem and its solution. Could the lad be homesick? Though Bilbo could not quite imagine why someone would prefer Buckland to Hobbiton or Brandy Hall to Bag End, he supposed he could not rule out the possibility.
He brought it up the next morning at first breakfast. “Well, Frodo, how do you feel about returning to Buckland?”
Frodo froze with his wide eyes locked onto Bilbo.
Bilbo sighed. “Don’t give me that look, lad. I’m not turning you out. But you must miss your friends there.”
The look of panic was replaced with uncanny speed by a sardonic one as Frodo raised his eyebrows. “The woods, you mean? Or my books? But I brought those with me.”
“Come now, there must be someone you’d like to see.”
Frodo shrugged.
Bilbo leaned back in his chair to better take in the full view of his nephew, who had resumed eating his toast. “What about Saradoc and Esmeralda? I thought they were always good to you.”
Frodo swallowed his mouthful and washed it down with a determined swallow of milk. “They’re busy with little Merry now. That’s what happens with adults, you know. They care about you, and then they have a little one of their own.”
Several ideas clicked into place at once. “You don’t really think they stopped caring about you, do you?”
“Of course they still care.” Frodo stood up. “You’d still care, even if you got married tomorrow and filled Bag End with children. But it wouldn’t be the same, would it?”
“Well, you can’t expect things to always stay the same. But that doesn’t mean—”
“I’m finished, thank you,” Frodo interrupted, without even an apology for his rudeness. He carried his plate (still laden with a large amount of breakfast) away, and that, it seemed, was that.
~
If homesickness did not explain the carelessness and forgetfulness, what possibly could? Frodo could not seriously be afraid that Bilbo was going to get married and turn him out, was he? But then what was all that nonsense about things not staying the same?
Perhaps that was not the actual problem. Perhaps the lad did not want to say what was really bothering him. Yes, that would be quite like Frodo.
It must be something Bilbo was doing wrong, then. Bilbo was upsetting him, and Frodo could not (or would not) put his emotions into words, and so he was resorting to this childish behavior in response. Though to what end, Bilbo could not imagine.
He wracked his brains to determine what he was doing that could possibly be so upsetting, but came up with nothing. Then again, he was hardly replete with experience when it came to the raising of tweenagers. Perhaps he should consult an expert.
He was toying with this idea, and considering approaching Bell Gamgee for her assistance, when he emerged from his bedroom one morning to step directly into a pile of gritty dirt in the main hallway. Wrinkling his nose, Bilbo shook the dust from his foot, but kept it raised in mid-air as he surveyed the rest of the hallway. In the morning light, he could see dust and dirt scattered across the floor.
He sighed deeply. Sweeping the hallway was one of Frodo’s chores, and now the floor seemed to be the latest victim of his forgetfulness. For one moment, Bilbo wondered if bringing it up was even worth it. As he had every other time Bilbo pointed out such an error, Frodo would apologize and offer to sweep immediately, but he would do so with a shuttered expression which Bilbo was beginning to recognize. That shuttered expression was far more awful than the awkward silences between them. Perhaps it was better, then, for Bilbo to simply sweep the floor himself.
But that was untenable. He could not go on allowing Frodo to become increasingly careless and forgetful. That was unfair to the lad, who was counting on Bilbo to give him a proper upbringing. And how would he do for himself when Bilbo was no longer there for him?
Mind made up, Bilbo sought the opportune time to raise the issue. He waited until after first breakfast, as he was beginning to notice that confrontations sometimes caused the lad to leave the table without finishing his meal.
Once Frodo finished putting away the dishes and was heading out, Bilbo cleared his throat. “Can I have a word with you before you go?”
Frodo stopped in the doorway to the hall. “I was going to collect apples across the Water.”
“A word, first, if you please.”
Frodo turned around with his hands shoved in his pockets. His blue eyes met Bilbo’s with a gleam of something that looked, for the first time, strangely like defiance.
Bilbo hesitated. Perhaps a direct confrontation was not the best plan after all. But without a backup plan, he had no choice but to forge ahead. “Listen here, Frodo. When you came to Bag End, I thought we were in agreement that you were to help out with certain chores.” He paused.
No response.
Bilbo frowned. “You agreed to that, didn’t you?” he pressed.
This earned a small nod.
“Thank you. And one of those chores was to keep the floors swept, wasn’t it? Do you recall that?”
Frodo glanced down at the kitchen floor, which was just as dirty as the main hallway. He offered another small nod.
Bilbo pointed at the floor. “Does that look swept to you?”
“No, Uncle.”
“You have got to do a better job remembering these things, my lad. Whatever will you do when I’m not here?”
Frodo now leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, head down, hands still in his pockets.
“Well?” Bilbo demanded.
“I expect I’ll cope as well as I ever have.”
The words hurt. Surely that had not been Frodo’s intention, but the sting cut deep regardless. Bilbo cleared his throat again. “Well, I’d rather you be prepared to function on your own as a respectable gentlehobbit. This is a hobbit hole, Frodo, not a hole for animals or insects. You just go on and sweep the floor right now. The apples can wait.”
With that little speech delivered, Bilbo waited expectantly.
But Frodo did not move from the doorframe.
Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “Come on now. Get to it.”
“No.”
Biblo was shocked. “I beg your pardon, young sir?”
Frodo wet his lips and held Bilbo’s gaze. “No. I’ll do it later.”
“You’ll do it right now, and you’ll do it thoroughly.”
“Keep going, and I won’t do it at all!” Frodo burst out.
“Excuse me?” Bilbo gasped.
They held each other’s gaze. Bilbo’s heart pounded and he felt quite as out-of-his-depth as he had facing down trolls and orcs and spiders and Thorin Oakenshield.
As for Frodo, he seemed to be waiting for something, for his defiance did not culminate in running out the front door as Bilbo might have expected. He remained completely motionless, hands still in his pockets. He seemed not to dare to breathe.
It was Bilbo who gave in first. “I see how it is, then,” he said tightly, and stalked past Frodo. He had to brush past the lad in the doorway, but he did not say another word as he left Bag End, letting the door fall shut behind him.