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Bilbo Baggins liked his life. He liked running his late mother’s herbalist shop, and he liked taking care of his nephew, and he liked having tea that he roasted himself with his lunch and he liked smoking pipeweed in the afternoons. He liked talking to his customers, because when they came, they were usually there for the herbs and spices and teas he sold, so he didn’t have to speak about subjects outside of his comfort zone. He liked reading books, alone or with Frodo. He liked to travel from time to time, around Shire and, if the season allowed Hamfast out of his greenhouses, and if he was in a mood to operate the store for a week or three, even further than that.
They had a good thing going, him and Hamfast, with Hamfast growing most of what Bilbo would sell, and Bilbo handling the preparation, packaging, and actual selling.
Bilbo Baggins also liked his peace. That, however, was in rapidly declining supply.
Bagshot Row was about as much in the centre of Hobbitton as one could get. Paved roads and tram lines and townhouses lining the street on either side. It wasn’t too noisy, or too busy—except when it was market day—but it was far from desolate. And Bilbo was far from the only hobbit with a store at the ground floor of his generational townhouse; the lone herbalist in the sea of tailors and shoemakers and bakeries restaurants and more, but not the lonely store.
Obviously, when the townhouse right next wall from Bag End was vacated by Bilbo’s previous neighbour—the elderly Mrs Burrows having moved to the countryside with her youngest daughter and son-in-law, unwilling to stay alone—the townhouse didn’t stay empty for long. In fact, it was snatched up as soon as it became available.
And now the new owners were renovating . And Bilbo had nothing against that, of course, but he shared a wall with them, and every day the renovation hours aligned perfectly with his afternoon tea.
But that wasn’t even that bad, really. It was fine; renovations were normal. Bilbo had a room for Frodo renovated quite recently and nobody complained about that.
The people coming to his store to try to clumsily fish for gossip rather than buy his wares, though? That Bilbo couldn’t stand. Even if he understood the curiosity, even if he understood that he was the politest way they could obtain information they were so desperate for. Or maybe he was overexaggerating; he was often called less sociable than most and did prefer to spend his time with books in peace, and all the small-talk was irritating him.
Because his new neighbour wasn’t a hobbit, and while that in itself wasn’t overly gossip worthy, the fact that he was Thorin Thrainson, the scion of the formerly-prodigious House of Durin until the tragic eruption of Erebor a few years back, however, was. And the fact that he was not intending to just live there; the ground floor was being refurbished into an eatery of some sort, Bilbo could see.
It was a smart idea, though, Bilbo had to admit. Nosy as hobbits could sometimes be, Hobbiton was a quiet, somewhat remote town in the quiet, somewhat remote Shire. A perfect place for Thorin, who as far as Bilbo was aware had no hand in the tragedy that destroyed Erebor, but was there for most of the fallout.
(Bilbo only knew of it what little trickled to Shire newspapers; they relied too much on the magma reserves, dug too deep, and the once-dormant volcano exploded. Many Erebor survivors moved to Moria afterwards.)
But alas, all Bilbo could do now was wait for his new neighbour to move in.
The dwarrow that opens the door has him stunned for a moment; tall and scowling and sharp-faced, with dark braided beard and dark braided hair, and clearest, bluest eyes Bilbo has ever seen. He’s a little mesmerised, gripping the cottage pie he’s made so that it doesn’t fall. He opens and closes his mouth, greeting lost at the tip of his tongue.
It’s a little unfair, actually.
“What do you want?” the dwarrow asks, almost hostile, and that snaps Bilbo out of it. The dwarrow, who most likely is Thorin Thrainson, might well be expecting the worst with the visit; he knows now that the building will be a cafe, but it is yet to be opened and for someone unused to Hobbit customs, Bilbo’s visit might very well be odd.
So he does his best to be understanding.
“Bilbo Baggins, and my nephew Frodo, at your service,” he says with a small bow and his best polite smile. It only deepens the dwarrow’s scowl. “I’m your immediate neighbour, and now that you’ve moved in, I’m here to welcome you.”
He holds up the pie, and Frodo peeks out from behind him, a bottle of wine clutched in the boy’s tiny hands. Something almost softens in the dwarrow’s eyes, but his scowl lessens.
“Thorin Thrainson,” he introduces himself finally, a little awkwardly. There’s a beat of silence. Bilbo continues smiling. There’s a movement inside, a bit of a scuffle, a half-shout. Thorin sighs, and motions at Bilbo. “Come in,” he says as he steps back and leans further into the building. “Boys. Boys! Calm down, there’s guests!”
Bilbo does, and Frodo follows. They go past the counter and the seating area as Thorin leads them into the kitchen. It’s spacious, almost fully equipped, and carrying primarily baking supplies. Bilbo makes a note of that as he sets the pie on the table that’s just a little too high for him to be comfortable, and helps Frodo do the same with the wine.
“Alcohol?” Thorin asks, inspecting the bottle.
“Wine,” Bilbo says. “Homemade raspberry wine. A little housewarming gift.”
“Thank you,” Thorin says. It’s a little more polite, and so the smile Bilbo gives him in return is a little more honest.
They don’t have time to speak any more, as there’s a thud of feet on the floor and two young boys skid into the kitchen pushing one another; one with dark, almost-black hair, and the other with dirty blonde locks, but both with clear blue eyes and remarkable similarity to Thorin. They both spot wispy beards and look barely any older than Frodo.
“Guests!” they call out in tandem, and Thorin sighs again.
“Yes, so do behave,” he says and turns to Bilbo and Frodo. “Fili and Kili, my nephews.”
“I’m Fili!” the blonde one calls out.
“Any I’m Kili!” says the brunet.
“And we’re living with uncle Thorin!” they say in tandem, and Bilbo can’t help a chuckle at that; it is endearing. Even Thorin is less sour.
“I’m Bilbo Baggins, delighted to meet you,” Bilbo says, and puts a hand at Frodo’s back. Frodo looks up at him and then at the boys, takes a deep breath and straightens up, puffing his cheeks.
“I’m Frodo Baggins,” he says and doesn’t stutter, and Bilbo couldn’t be prouder. “I’m, uh. I’m… N-Nice to meet you!”
Fili and Kili look at Frodo, then at each other, then back at Frodo, matching grins on their faces.
“Wanna go play?” Kili asks, reaching out a hand. Frodo grabs Bilbo’s sleeve and looks up at him; he’s been keeping to himself ever since coming to live with Bilbo, his parents’ untimely death taking a severe toll on the boy. But his sparkling eyes openly said he did want to go, and maybe try making friends finally. He was just a little scared and overwhelmed.
“It’ll be fun!” Fili says. “We have blocks!”
“I-I wanna go,” Frodo says and looks at the boys. “I’ll go.”
And he goes, and Bilbo ruffles his hair in passing, and then just like that he’s alone in the kitchen with Thorin, and suddenly everything becomes that much more awkward. Thorin coughs into his hand.
“Come sit,” he says. “They’ll take a while.”
“Ah yes,” Bilbo agrees and does. The chairs, like the table, are just a little too tall; tailored to someone of a dwarrow size than the smaller hobbit, but it’s not really an issue.
Awkward silence persists for a moment still, until Bilbo can’t take it.
“Congratulations on your new home,” he blurts out. “Now that it’s done, I see the renovations did a world of good. Especially washing the front walls. Did you put new floors in?”
“Yes,” Thorin nods. “The old floors were termite-ridden, we had to replace them all. I… Hope the renovations didn’t bother you too much.”
“Not at all!” Bilbo lies politely.
It’s easier to talk from there. Still a little halted and awkward, but as his initial distrust bleeds into cautious curiosity, and they get into the wine Bilbo brought, he proves a good company.
They have a lengthy conversation about renovations because Bilbo realises it does interest him actually, as his own townhouse was last properly renovated when he was little and his mother decided to make the ground floor a herbalist store and maybe he would like to do some ground-up maintenance soon after all. Then they talk a little about the children, because that is an unexpected common ground; though while Bilbo is properly raising Frodo in the wake of his parent’s deaths, Fili and Kili are with Thorin because their mother, Thorin’s sister Dis, is the only one willing to care for their ailing father.
His ailments no doubt caused by the disaster of Erebor, Bilbo thinks he heard something about severe injuries and loss of mental faculties, but Thorin isn’t inclined to speak of it, and Bilbo doesn’t press. It’s clearly a family matter.
“I thought you were here for gossip,” Thorin eventually says bluntly, swirling the wine in his glass, and Bilbo chuckles.
“Goodness no! We've only just met. Fishing for gossip will have to wait until at least the third meeting when we're properly acquainted,” he says with a conspiratorial sink that startles a laugh out of Thorin.
“So that's why you're here? To get to know me before squeezing out the details of my life from me?”
“Not particularly,” Bilbo says. “I’m not really interested in gossip so much as having a good relationship with my neighbour; and Frodo has certainly taken a shine to your nephews. There's no reason to not be friendly, is there?”
Thorin nods. “Aye. Erebor was a tragedy and I’m here to distance myself from it all,” he admits. “Start anew, raise Fili and Kili away from all this grief. Dis will join us as soon as she can.”
“Then… Excuse me for prying, but their father—?”
“Casualty,” Thorin says bitterly. “Saved many, but succumbed to his wounds later.”
Bilbo looks down on his hands. “My condolences.”
Thorin hums, and they sit in silence again for a bit, but it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as the first time.
“Then why open a cafe?” Bilbo asks eventually. “People will try to talk to you.”
Thorin's face sours. “I'll deal with that when it comes to it,” he says. “I’m not the type to loaf around on what wealth is left, and baking is easy.”
“Really? I could never get the hang of it.”
“It’s all about following the recipe precisely,” Throin says with a shrug. “Like building machinery and forging.”
“Ah, I suppose it depends on the person,” Bilbo agrees. “Why Hobbiton, specifically?”
“Gandalf recommended it. Said people here were a little nosy but kind. So far he's been right.”
Ah, Bilbo thinks. That explains a lot of it.
“Seems like we have a shared associate, then,” Bilbo chuckles.
“You know Gandalf?”
“In passing. He was a good friend of my mother; truly, part of the influence that had her opening the store I run now.”
“Ah. He really does that a lot, doesn’t he? Meddle?”
Bilbo chuckles. “Well, he is a Maia,” he says. “He’s old. He has to make his entertainment somehow.”
“True that,” Thorin agrees. “I… Was going to open just a coffee shop initially, but he dissuaded me from it. Said hobbits aren’t as fond of it as us dwarrow, but they are fond of food.”
“Quite famously,” Bilbo agrees with a chuckle. “Quite a good choice, I must admit. We have several bakeries, but few of them supply cakes and cookies.”
“We make ours in-house,” Thorin says with pride. Bilbo smiles and then thinks for a moment. This… It is a bit of an opportunity for everyone involved, isn’t it?
“Do you have a piece of paper?”
“I… Yes, why?”
“I could give you a landline number to my friend, Hamfast Gamgee, if you’d like that. He’s the one who supplies the bulk of my herbs and spices, and he’s been growing many fruits and vegetables as well. He’s been looking to increase his greenhouses but so far had little reason to.”
Thorin blinks, understanding flashing in his eyes. “So he could supply me with fresh local fruit for the deserts,” he surmises. “Yes. Yes, that would work. But why give it to me?”
We only just met , goes unsaid but well-heard. Why help me like this? What’s in it for you?
Bilbo chuckles.
“We’re a community here, master Thrainson,” he tells him simply. “I’m not sure how dwarrow communities work because I only ever lived here, but in Hobbitton—truly, in the whole Shire, we help each other. No ulterior motives, just two businesses working together for mutual benefit. That's how it works here, is all.”
Thorin nods and pockets the card, suspicion placated. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Boys come back into the kitchen before long, Frodo looking quite tired but happy, and they leave, though Thorin, if a little awkwardly, invites them to visit again if they’d like that.
They don’t really have much time to visit for the next several days; Hamfast brings another shipment of tea to be roasted and herbs to be dried, and Bilbo busies himself with that. He does drop Frodo off and come pick him up to play with Fili and Kili, and he does exchange polite greetings with Thorin, but that’s about as much as he has time for.
Hamfast has a lot to say, too; Thorin did call him, after all, and tentative talks of a business partnership were in place. But Hamfast was a careful gardener and they agreed to wait to see how Thorin’s cafe was going to perform at all, especially after the initial interest, in both Thorin and the cafe, wanes.
The opening comes and goes. Bilbo goes, mostly to congratulate it, has some raspberry muffins. They’re good.
People trickle in and out, gossip-mongers quickly weeded out from real clients with Thorin’s perfectly polished, politely professional mask. It’s impressive, Bilbo thinks. But then again, given who Thorin is, not unexpected.
He takes some more muffins home for Frodo, and likely Sam, once Frodo inevitably brings him back from his visit to the Gamgees.
It’s calm, fairly late in the day. Store is closed, and Bilbo is sweeping the floors off the stray leaves when the doorbell rings and startles him somewhat. Still, he goes to open it, wondering who might it be at this time; and behind the door he finds Thorin looking a little nervous. Bilbo invites him in.
“What brings you here?” he asks as he makes them tea with the fresh new stock and Thorin looks curiously around the shelves and shelves of herbs, spices, pipeweed, tea, and more. “I hear your cafe fares well. Apologies, I didn’t quite have time to visit just yet.”
“It’s okay,” Thorin says. “I’m here more for business.”
Bilbo turns to him, a glint in his eyes. “Oh, do tell?”
Thorin sighs and laces his hands together on the table. “Locals didn’t take too well to coffee. Not nearly as well as I was hoping, and even a little below what I was expecting.”
“I’m sorry,” Bilbo says. “It’s… A little difficult to get hobbits to try something new. But I do hear they were praising your cakes!”
“Aye,” Thorin nods. “And I’m not going to sell alcohol, it’s not a bar. But I can sell tea.”
Bilbo smiles. “And so you came to me.”
“You sell tea,” Thorin agrees, and motions to his cup. “You know how to make tea. It’s a skill I neglected. I never drink it.”
“So you want me to teach you how to brew it?”
“That… I know I’m asking much, but—”
“I would love to,” Bilbo blurts out before more placations come because in all honesty, he would. To share his love for tea, and, if he were honest, to spend some time with Thorin as well. “When would you like to start?”
“Ideally now,” Thorin says. “Then I could add them to the menu after the weekend.”
“Perfect! We can go to the kitchen, then, and I’ll teach you how to brew the most popular ones.”
And they go. And if Bilbo is being honest with himself, spending time with Thorin is actually very pleasant, as he explains the deceptively simple process of brewing tea and the dwarrow listens with rapt attention and honest-to-Yavanna takes notes. It’s endearing, and it comes to a close far quicker than Bilbo would like, and he’s sending Thorin off with a basket of teas to try out.
“Thank you, master Baggins,” Thorin says and Bilbo waves his hand.
“Just Bilbo.”
“Then please call me Thorin, as well.”
“I will,” Bilbo nods. “I’m happy to help. And to do business.”
“Are you certain I shouldn’t pay you for these, then?” Thorin asks, motioning at the basket. Bilbo shakes his head.
“Not at all. Consider it my startup capital!”
Thorin laughs at that a little. “Fair enough, that.”
“Oh, and one more thing!” Bilbo calls out as the dwarrow descends the steps. Thorin pauses and turns back to him briefly. “If you wish to convince hobbits to coffee, might you try putting it in your cakes instead?”
Thorin blinks up at him, then looks down at his hands, and back at Bilbo. “I haven’t thought about this before.”
“Something to try!”
“Certainly. Once more, thank you. And do come by to try some tea this Monday!”
“I will!”
He does come by that Monday on his self-imposed lunch break. Thorin is very busy with his work, of course, and Bilbo tramps down the small tang of disappointment at the lack of longer conversation, but the tea is delicious, mixed with syrup and poured over ice. And popular, as well; nearly every other guest he sees is having some or other recipe.
Later, but before the stores close, Fili and Kili are on his doorstep with a box in their hands. They barely hand it to Bilbo before they’re dashing upstairs with Frodo at the promise of being shown his pinned butterfly collection. Bilbo only shakes his head fondly and puts the box in his fridge for later; inside are slices of cake that smell of coffee.
Thorin comes by to pick the boys up, eventually; and with them, his first order of teas. He seems a little disappointed to learn Bilbo didn’t try the cakes he sent yet, but understands that Bilbo is busy; food is best eaten at one’s own leisure, after all.
Bilbo does try the cakes after work, and as dubious as he is about coffee by itself, it’s certainly delicious paired with all the other parts of the cake. Frodo likes them too.
Few days later—so as not to seem too eager—he sends Frodo next door with a box of fruit tea blends, and some spices.
Novelty wears off, life returns to its less gossip-y normal. Thorin’s cafe continues doing well; Bilbo continues visiting it on his lunch breaks every Tuesday and Thursday, and Frodo with him. A month in, Thorin and Hamfast come to an agreement, which leads to an increase of fresh fruit in both sweets and drinks.
Bilbo finds himself quite particular to the lemonade Thorin makes.
They’re friends, he thinks. They get along; Thorin slowly comes out of his prickly shell, and Bilbo lets himself be less polite and more himself, and Thorin doesn’t seem to be as turned off by his oddities as he would fear.
Maybe because he’s not a hobbit, and doesn’t share many hobbit sensibilities; Bilbo’s adventurous nature and curiosity don’t seem odd to him at all. In fact, he begins to share stories of his own travels, and Bilbo thinks he may be a little enamoured by it.
Bilbo spots a familiar figure when he’s visiting the local library on Saturday. Now, from their conversations, Bilbo knew that Thorin was a well-read dwarrow, but still; it was the first time Bilbo ran into him by chance while out in Hobbiton.
Thorin is surprised too, when Bilbo calls out to him, but he’s a welcoming presence. They’re in the poetry section. Not what Bilbo came here for, exactly, as he only meant to pick up a new book for Frodo, but he doesn’t mind the delay at all.
“Looking for something to read?”
“Aye, though the collection here is a little limited.”
“Hobbitton is fairly rural,” Bilbo says as he reaches up and picks up one of the more delicately embossed tomes. “You’ll find more fables and books on gardening here. How about this one? It’s pretty good, for a translation.”
It’s elvish. Thorin makes a face.
“I’m not a big fan of elvish poetry,” he admits. “It’s very long-winded and floral, there’s great a many fluff-words that often outright take away from the delivery. And besides, you said it’s a translation; I’ve yet to encounter one that gives an elvish poem proper justice. Their word choices are ingenious, especially in Quenya, but impossible to translate into Westron or Khuzdul, and likely into Hobbitish as well. Even translating Quenya to Sindarin is a tall order.”
“If you dislike it, why praise it?”
“I don’t have to like it to appreciate the craftsmanship.”
“And what poetry do you like?”
Thorin considers it for a while, brushing his fingers along the spines of the books and Bilbo puts away the one he took.
“There’s an orc from Moria, Snaga,” he says eventually, and it’s not what Blbo expected at all. “He writes in Khuzdul, and he captures the daily lives of people in his poems beautifully.”
“Truly?”
Thorin nods. “I had no clue there was beauty in a piece of burning timber until he wrote about it being used to fuel a family’s stove. I don’t think this library has any of his works, though, which is a shame. Hobbits I think would appreciate his poems. But…”
“But translating Khuzdul to Westron or Hobbitish would be nigh-impossible to keep the essence of the poems?” Bilbo guesses.
“Aye.”
Bilbo ponders for a moment, but reaches down, to one of the lower shelves, picks up another book; simpler, leather-bound, with a pretty picture painted on top. Song of Rain on the Parapet and Other Musings , by Cinthy.
“Then how about this one?” he says and gives it to Thorin.
“Cinthy? I don’t recognize this name,” Thorin says, but takes the book.
“Hyacinth Brandybuck,” Bilbo says. “When you spoke about Snaga, it reminded me of her poetry. It’s very domestic, and she writes in Westron. She’s much more known for her novels. I’m actually here for one of them, for Frodo,” he admits and shows Thorin the book he’s been holding under his arm; similarly leatherbound with a handpainted image. Adeline’s Big Garden Adventure by Cinthy.
“What is it about?”
“I believe it’s about a young hobbit lass discovering a secret part of her mother’s garden that’s been walled off for years,” Bilbo says. “I’m not sure, it’s only been out for a few months. Frodo has been a little obsessed with the whole series.”
“Ah, it makes sense. I appreciate him befriending Fili and Kili, but I can see they’re a little too energetic for him sometimes.”
“They are,” Bilbo agrees, “but they’re a good school of assertiveness for him, too.”
“And he already taught them some patience and tact,” Thorin says with a nod.
They keep talking after that; their longest conversation yet, and Bilbo honestly doesn’t want it to stop. He’s engaged in it, in the topic of it, and in the way Thorin’s eyes light up as they talk. He is more insightful of prose and poetry than Bilbo would have assumed; he would have thought the dwarrow to be more versed in treatises and laws and diagrams. The technical kind that Bilbo had no hope of wrapping his head around.
Still, they have to leave the library before long; it’s rude to loiter between the bookshelves.They check out their books, and then they’re standing on the paved sidewalk, a little awkward. Bilbo considers what to say, but Thorin beats him to it.
“Would you like to continue our conversation in the café?” he asks a little haltingly, somewhat unsure but also a little hopeful. “If it wouldn’t impart your time with Frodo—”
“I would love that,” he says and smiles, because he would, in fact. “Frodo is currently at the Gamgee house, I was getting the book to surprise him with, actually. He won’t be back until late evening.”
“Ah. Well, let us go then. I also made some new deserts,” Thorin offers, and Bilbo can hear plain as day he’s trying very hard to be offhand about it. “If you’d like to try them.”
“That’d be delightful,” Bilbo says, because of course he would. He was genuinely enjoying Thorin’s company until now the way he hadn’t enjoyed anyone’s company for years.
Or ever, now that he thought about it. Because Thorin didn’t consider him odd for liking adventures and poetry, for travelling sometimes and running a store even though he had inherited more than enough wealth from both his parents to live without having to work a single day.
Thorin enjoyed his presence, too, between invitations and visits, and the fact that Bilbo was just about the only hobbit Thorin ever spared his genuine smiles for; him and Frodo.
The calmness of the weeks that follow is interrupted rather abruptly with a visit of another dwarrow. Bilbo isn’t really there to see any of it, but he is there when Thorin knocks on his door, grim faced.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for a favour,” is the first thing he says when Bilbo opens his door.
“I—What kind?”
Thorin closes his eyes for a moment, takes a few deep breaths, and opens them again. “I need you to take care of Fili and Kili for… I’m not sure. About a week? To a fortnight, perhaps.”
“Oh. Why? Did something happen?”
Thorin nods. “My father isn’t well. Until now, my sister has been taking care of him, but he has… Lashed out. At her.”
The words don’t come easy to Thorin; he almost chokes on them. Bilbo gasps.
“Goodness, is she okay?”
“Yes, yes, she’s fine. But… It’s no longer safe for her to care for father. I need to go there, and deal with it. So—”
“Of course, Thorin,” Bilbo says. “The boys are a delight!”
“They’re terrors,” Thorin chuckles, though weakly, and lets out a breath of relief. “Thank you. I will compensate you for it—”
“Nonsense,” Bilbo waves his hand. “We help each other here, remember?”
“Aye. Thank you, Bilbo.”
Bilbo nods, satisfied. “I’m sorry for what happened,” he says. “Now, I don’t want to overstep, but… You look like you really could use a hug.”
Thorin looks up at him a little startled, but doesn’t outright deny it. He takes a breath, then another, looks at his hands, then back at Bilbo. “I would… Like that, actually.”
So Bilbo opens his arms and Thorin steps in, and honestly it is rather nice. It would have been nicer if it were in bigger circumstances, but for now Bilbo just focuses on rubbing soothing circles on Thorin’s back until he’s ready to let go.
“Bring the boys whenever,” he says when Thorin finally lets go. “I’ll go tell Frodo.”
“Aye. Thank you.”
Fili and Kili take the situation pretty well, all things considered. They’re not really children anymore, though they’re far from anything adult, and they’re rightfully worried about their mother, but they focus mostly on the new adventure. Frodo finally introduces them to Sam, and then later to Merry and Pippin when the two visit.
It’s far from peaceful, of course, and Frodo does need his breaks, but it’s good. A little fun, and they pick up after themselves, and for all their exuberance, are polite and capable.
Bilbo worries, of course. About Thorin, mostly, and a little about Dis, but doesn’t let it haunt him too much. All he can do right now is wait, anyway.
Thorin comes back before the second week after his departure ends. He’s dressed much more like a dwarrow prince than a cafe owner, and is downright stunning in the heavy embroidery and Bilbo can’t quite look away as Fili and Kili throw themselves at their uncle and he lifts them both up and twirls them around effortlessly.
Dis is well, he tells them. They decided to relocate their father to Rivendell, where Elrond and his healers would look after him in a capacity nobody could at Moria. Dis insisted she would be the one to escort him there, and then she would come to Hobbiton, but also insisted that Thorin return to care for her sons so that she may do so in peace. She sent most of her personal items with him, as well.
Thorin has just returned himself; he didn’t even go back to his townhouse yet, intent on bringing good news to his nephews. Bilbo understands that. Just as well as he understands that the boys aren’t exactly keen on returning right now.
“We’re going on an adventure,” Frodo declares to Thorin.
“You are?”
“We are,” Kili confirms.
“We’re going to look for beetles at the Party Tree!” Fili says. “And caterpillars.”
“And flowers!” Sam adds. Thorin looks at Bilbo and Bilbo just shrugs, but they’re both amused.
“They even already prepared picnic baskets,” Bilbo tells Thorin, and Thorin chuckles and shakes his head.
“Very well then,” he says. “But you’re coming home once you’re done. Your mother sent gifts for you.”
“Yes!” Fili and Kili cheer. And then they put on their shoes, grab the bug nets and garden shovels and picnic baskets, and they’re gone. And just like that, Thorin and Bilbo are alone.
It’s somewhat like the first time they met, but the silence is comfortable, and Bilbo doesn’t quite want it to end.
“Would you like to stay for lunch?” Bilbo asks before he can stop himself. It startles him a little, he thinks, and it startles Thorin too, who half-turns around to look at him.
“I haven’t eaten yet,” he warns after a beat with a smile that’s a little cheeky.
“Not even breakfast?”
“No, I was hurrying home.”
“Well, all the more reason to stay for lunch!”
Thorin chuckles. “Aye.”
So he hangs his ornate travel coat on the rack and follows Bilbo inside.
And it’s nice. It’s peaceful, without the younglings causing a ruckus afoot, though they will be back soon enough. They eat, they drink, they talk. They move to the backyard veranda with some pipeweed and afternoon drinks—coffee for Thorin and tea for Bilbo—and talk. Discuss Cinthy’s poetry, laugh a little as Thorin struggles to translate some of Snaga’s poems from Khuzdul to Westron, talk about business and plans for the future.
Dis will move in with Thorin soon, so he will have reliable help at the cafe, and he’s looking forward to that. Hamfast is finally building another greenhouse to meet the increased demand for produce. There’s birthdays and parties approaching.
Everything and anything.
It’s good. And Bilbo will invite him again sometime soon, he knows. And Thorin will invite him for coffee again, likely, feed him some sweet concoction he came up with and Bilbo will drink it anyway because he knows it will be good. And they will talk more about books and poetry and theatre and adventures.
And if they sit a little too close on the bench, nobody is there to witness that and gossip about it. And when finally, finally Thorin turns to him and leans down, and Bilbo leans up a little and they kiss and giggle like youths enamoured for the first time, that’s all entirely theirs, too.