Chapter Text
“I swear to the Gods, I am going to suffocate in this suit.” A frustrated Bilbo groaned out into the empty expanse of the parking deck. The near busload of colleagues he had arrived with were the first to arrive, even before the valet had shown up. A large hand patted his shoulder, and the irritated hobbit turned to face the ever unreadable man behind him. “I don’t believe that’s the case. Your pride is much too expansive to allow yourself to die in such a silly way.” Bilbo knew that was an attempt at reassurance, but he only gritted his teeth further with a ‘tsk” slipping between them. "You'd be surprised at where my priorities lie," he hummed in response, an annoyed edge to his tone but otherwise not actually that bothered. "Comfort is of upmost importance." Gandalf, last name unknown to most, was the president of some general production company that Bilbo, embarrassingly, could only recall the title of when he was in the middle of a negotiation, though it was named simply "Fellowship" (which Bilbo rolled his eyes at with the limited copyrighting such a general word offered), and more relevantly, was a force in his life that has been there since he was a boy. The man, whose age he also didn’t know, had been a friend of his mothers from a time long before Bilbo was a concept. Seeing as even the man’s race of origin was a mystery, the hobbit came to the conclusion that the man was immortal or fae, or both. He had shown up one day before his parents had passed, and continued to linger about long after. It was thanks to him that Bilbo was able to settle into a position immediately after obtaining his masters, The mystery man had built his company from quite literally nothing, with his biographies claiming his childhood bedroom to be his factory, and him the only designer, producer, and salesman of his products, which for a rather long time were solely toys and other entertainment devices, to the children around his town. Decades later, all of that hometown small business nonsense turned into a company that had obscene amounts of plastic, silicon, fabric and metal, and they were making every product under the sun to get rid of it all. They still made toys, but could now furnish your entire kitchen with their line of accessories and appliances. If you aren't much of a chef, you're still in luck, considering they've started producing office supplies, home sound systems, and couches. Because why the hell not? Bilbo had nothing to do with the actual production or design of whatever it was that they made, though. This was by design, as he wasn't much of a fan of physical labor. He was, in simplified terms, the company's lawyer and negotiator. He might not understand blueprints from a technical standpoint, but by the Gods could he point out every little thing that would get one sued into oblivion if it were made public. He was also a rather smooth talker when he put his mind to it, and more importantly when he managed to put in the effort to bite back that snippy tongue of his. When companies wanted to partner with theirs for their resources, men, or money, it hitched almost entirely on him to ensure the deal would be a net positive for both parties, and entirely legal. It should come as some surprise that the latter was the part others seemed to struggle with the most. Though his role in the company was far overshadowed by that of the men and dwarves who worked to actually create the goods the company produced, he was still a key factor in the diplomatic end of things. This is why the presence of the others in the stupidly extravagant limo Gandalf seemed to just… have on hand confused the hobbit to some degree. There were 13 familiar dwarves, all of which had some key role in the physical production of what their company was making. One of them was the director of production himself. “His actual job is to supervise and ensure everyone is working safely and meeting quotas,” Gandalf had explained in his office one day, ages ago, when prompted, “but I often find him taking up stations in the factory doing whatever hands on things he can. He often protests the existence of the machines there entirely, one of few requests of his I cannot oblige.” That dwarf’s name was Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo’s first impression of the man, about a year ago now, was that of a warning stating he should not take any criticism of his character to heart as Thorin was intense about his disdain for those who could not do what he and his men did. And while he greatly respected what he and his men did do, he did not understand why their presence would be necessary during a diplomatic gala between the partners of the Forest company, another infuriatingly uncopyrightable and bordering on illegal name for a company. As Bilbo's eyes lingered on Thorin for what only felt like a second, his mind wandered to how much his relationship with Thorin had grown from their first meeting, which was a business deal that ended successfully, but was quite…emotional, to say the least. *** Normally, the only ones in the room during a contract analysis would be Bilbo and Gandalf, the occasional secretary entering to bring them refreshments as Bilbo would pick apart what the long winded legal jargon paragraphs actually meant to say and demand. But when Bilbo was summoned on a rather beautiful Tuesday morning for what he believed was a routine meeting, he was instead met with a full conference table, some dwarves even needing to stand against the walls of the room, and one empty seat across the way from Gandalf, rather than his usual open seat beside of the man. “If you’re going to fire me and throw a party,” the hobbit broke the awkward silence with an attempt to sound somewhat confident, but a crack in his voice and the sweat beading in the crook of his neck betrayed that entirely. “I must say it’s quite an odd choice to let me meet the partygoers first.” While Gandalf let out a hearty chuckle, the rest of the merry bunch kept their same stone cold expressions while they waited for… something, and not knowing what was sending Bilbo into quite the panic. “No, nothing like that,” the silver haired goliath - which is undoubtedly what he was compared to the stature of the man he was speaking to - waved a hand dismissively, though the mirth in his eyes did not last long as he used that hand to then gesture towards the stack of papers that sat in front of the hobbit. Bilbo obliged, not without a trace glance across the room from under his lashes. His eyes rested on each of the dwarves' faces for about half a second, imprinting them to memory. This felt like a negotiation. Crowding and kindness were counternegotiation tactics. Fight or flight instincts took over and met somewhere in the middle as he racked his brain with possibilities of what the hell this could have been, but his mind was silenced for a moment as his eyes landed on the dwarf standing just behind Gandalf, to his left. Taller than his counterparts standing around him, but still within the typical height range for his race. He was standardly wide, too, but still not as much as those around him. He was a dwarf, yes, but he stuck out quite like a swollen middle finger with his short beard and smooth skinned face. Upon hearing a cough, Bilbo was torn back into the present, blinking as he realized he was staring in quite a disrespectful manner. Much to his delight, Gandalf did not ask questions as he dove into the topic at hand. An hour of explanation had passed as Thorin and a man he learned to be named Balin both explained the contract before him, of which Bilbo was reading with increasing concern as they spoke. “Oh my Gods, you’re actually insane.” A scoff in response to his accusation only added more exasperated annoyance to Bilbo’s tone as he stood and slammed a hand down on the conference table. “There isn’t a singular part of this contract that I could even begin to defend the legality of!-” “I know,” he was cut off by the gruff voice of the man he now knew as Thorin who by now had similarly propped himself against the glass in between them. “But we need these resources.” Bilbo stammered, his jaw hanging slack as his fiery gaze flickered between every face in the room, the indifferent expressions on their face sending small, white hot bursts of anger through his brain down into his spine. “I’ll have to rewrite the whole bloody thing, by what day did you say, Thursday?! I’m not a damn miracle worker, and quite frankly, I barely see the need for such resources when all we produce are children's toys and kitchen tupperwares. I-” The continuation of what would have been a very detailed and angry speech letting those in the room know just how he felt about such a task was cut off by a clearing of Gandalf’s throat, which seemed to halt all movement and sound in the room. “I am the one who requested this partnership with the property owners in Lake-town. Thorin has simply acted as a liaison for me, as I am much more far removed from the process of production than I used to be. He knows what I want, and you know how to ask for it. The purpose of this council was not to ruffle your feathers, dear Bilbo,” the endearing nickname had the man deflate, just a bit. He had said some quite rude things about the one who had tried to strike up such a partnership with such an unintelligent lot. “Rather, I am requesting that you work with the dwarves to ensure they have what they need to complete the project I have set forward for them. You ultimately have the lead on rewriting this contract.” Onlookers may have asked Gandalf if he regretted saying such a thing to the hobbit, who did indeed take quite the lead on establishing partnership with a plot of land that had some material precious to whatever it was Gandalf would have his company produce. He met the deadline of having a new contract drafted by Thursday, but working with a band of 13 dwarves to get there caused a literal chunk of hair to fall out of Bilbo’s head in the shower by Friday. Each of them had different things to say, comments to add, things to request, all while having no actual idea how to write a legal contract and how to form sensible demands. He was sure, he reassured himself frequently, that these men must be good at something. Smart at their craft, no doubt. When they began talking about welding, machine tinkering, or blueprint drawing, they sounded much alike Bilbo when he began talking about the legal history of such professions. But it was very clearly obvious why he was the one with the degree, and not them. Really, it should be said that 12 of the dwarves were driving him crazy. Thorin was rather indifferent on most matters brought up during their 14 hour long meeting, only speaking when prompted and only giving short, curt, factual statements in response. Bilbo was grateful for the fact that the others seemed to listen to him, calming down when the man decided they had gotten too rowdy. Without that morsel of control being taken in the room, Bilbo was sure he would have killed someone or himself by hour 4. By the time the contract was finished, he almost didn’t understand the warning Gandalf had given him 16 hours earlier. Almost, though. While Bilbo was packing up his papers, a delirious slowness to his actions as the overwhelming nature of the writing session he had just concluded began to sink in, Thorin loomed to his right long after the rest of the room had cleared. “A picture would last longer,” Bilbo mumbled, hoping such an overused comment would be enough to get the man’s attention off of him. “Gandalf praised you as a capable negotiator, but I worry he’s going senile if this is how you act during every meeting’ This was the longest sentence Thorin had huffed out the entire time, and managed to be one of the most infuriating of the entire evening. “I beg your pardon?” was all he was able to hum in response, his head remaining down, eyes boring holes into his briefcase sitting on the wood table in front of him - thank the Gods for that, for a glass surface would have broken ages ago. “You speak and criticise us, our work, and our demands as if you have any ounce of understanding on what you are speaking of. You belong in your cubicle, your nose in a computer screen. Not meddling in the affairs of craftsmen and this business you seem to know nothing about.” “Meddling? You call this meddling?” Bilbo replied, his tone oddly calm and indifferent to start with. “If I had sent over your chicken scratch of a contract you had handed over, this building would be getting repossessed the very next with how quickly we would be sued into bankruptcy. Did you know it is against general law to demand access to the same public water source that the majority of an area’s drinking water comes from? And did you know that lake-town is landlocked? That lake they are named so well for is their main source of drinking water. Any water around that place comes from that damn lake. Going in and sifting around the bottom of it breaks about 3 living-rights policies. “Did you also know that requesting their miners and workers goes explicitly against the Middle Earth Miner’s Association and Union rules, which have been legally recognized and protected through international discussion? Even the elves abide by that one. Miners volunteer themselves, and if you knew anything about the union, you would know they are very willing so long as payment is offered. Which you failed to ensure in your original proposal. These two violations alone would have your body split around the walls of more than a few lawyers I know as to show proof that their existence will always be necessary.” Without letting Thorin interject, Bilbo raised a hand and walked towards the trashcan in a corner of the room. Within lay the original contract, on which Bilbo had marked up every line that needed correction. The paper was nearly dripping in his characteristic green ink. Thorin opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out, so Bilbo continued. “Whatever your intentions be, I don’t care. Gandalf told me to help you out, so I did. If you call that meddling, then fine, but it was necessary meddling. For the sake of this company, which you know equally nothing about.” There was almost bile at the end of his tongue as the normally non-confrontational hobbit spewed his defense. “Tomorrow morning, you will be called with the news that either the contract has already been signed, or they want to meet in person to sign it with witnesses. Gods strike me down if I am wrong.” Bilbo would, as it happens, live another day, as he was right. His success rewarded him with a week of paid vacation and an apology from Gandalf. A very vague and halfhearted one, as Bilbo suspected the man didn’t believe there was anything to apologize for. He tried to explain the disrespect he had faced from the men he was constantly saving from prison time, but all Gandalf said in response was that “they are ignorant to your value. If you care as much as you seem to, then it is your job to educate them on how wrong they are about you. How wrong he is about you.” But for now, with a slam of the marked up contract on the table between him and Thorin, Bilbo concluded his angry tirade by turning on his heel and storming out of the room. Only one thing could come between him and his bed, and thank the Gods it was already asleep by the time he got home.