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Bofur had never considered himself to be a morning person, but he was a light sleeper. Decades of travelling with a horde of vulnerable pebbles had trained his ears and eyes, even when unconscious. Which meant the sunlight pouring into their room and the dawn chorus from the millions of birds seemingly living on top of Bag End woke him up long before Bilbo or Thorin even began to stir, and prevented him from dropping off again.
He sat up with a yawn and looked over to his bedmates. On the far side Bilbo was laying on his stomach, face smushed into the pillows as he snored softly. He'd stuck one leg out of the duvet, and his nightshirt was pushed up to his mid-thigh. Between himself and Bilbo, Thorin was laying on his side. The dark locks of his hair had begun to escape his braid, and he slept absolutely silently.
While Thorin had learned to sleep past the birdsong and sunlight, he still woke several times a night, and lay quiet and still in their bed when sleeping.
Some things even a decade in the Shire couldn't quite cure. Bofur brushed some of Thorin's hair back from his face and pulled the duvet over Bilbo's exposed leg before he climbed out of bed. He stretched and yawned, scratching his belly. Then he pulled on his sheepskin slippers and his own patchwork dressing gown.
After a few moments in the bathroom he was neatly brushed and braided, and feeling more refreshed. He gave Thorin and Bilbo one last fond look as he left the bedroom and closed the little door behind him.
The first order of the day was a pipe in the garden.
Bofur yawned into his hand as he stepped outside, sitting down on the bench and pulling his pipe from the pocket of his dressing gown. He packed the bowl with a blend of Old Toby and Ered Luin Leaf and lit it with a match, puffing until he could blow a voluptuous stream of purple-blue smoke into the air.
“Good morning, Master Bofur,” came a cheery voice to his left. Bofur turned, grinning widely.
“And a good mornin' to you, Master Gamgee! And to young Samwise, there,” he added, waving at the tiny hobbit clinging to his father's legs. “Up early, aren't you?”
“My new sister wanted breakfast an hour ago, so I got up to play with her,” said Sam sincerely. “Is Frodo going to come play again, soon?”
Bofur laughed as Hamfast gave his son a mildly despairing look.
“What have we said about bothering poor Master Baggins and his dwarves about Frodo, lad?” he sighed, putting a little basket of fresh fruits and vegetables in his son's arms. “Go give that to Master Bofur, and if he's willing, perhaps he'll tell you a story while I dig this bed.”
Sam nodded, wriggling through a hole in the hedge and running up to Bofur with the basket in his hands and leaves in his curls.
“Alright then, my wee pebble,” Bofur said cheerily, lifting him up onto the bench and putting his pipe aside. “Have I told you the story of the elven king's dungeons and our daring escape?”
“Yes,” said Sam, taking a handful of ripe strawberries from the basket and tucking in, his little legs swinging. He had dirt smudged on his knees and cheeks already, glowing in the early morning sunlight. Children, Bofur had long decided, were one of the best things about the Shire.
Bofur helped himself to an apple.
“Ho! How about the mighty Beorn – half man, half bear?”
Sam's eyes widened.
“Half bear!” he exclaimed, squishing a strawberry as he clutched it too hard.
“Oh, aye! As big as this smial, he was! Bigger than the menfolk and the elves. And he had a wooden house in this beautiful valley, and he was friends with all the animals there. In fact, he was so friendly with the animals, he had sheep and dogs and cows that served him his breakfast in the mornings.”
Sam gasped softly, and ate the strawberry pulp from his fingers.
By the time Bofur was wrapping up the story of Beorn, the basket had been emptied of its contents, and Hamfast glancing over with the most grateful eyes Bofur had ever seen. The sound of the door opening behind him made him smile, and he turned to see a still sleepy Thorin leaning against the frame. His hair was loose, and he was in a dressing gown which vaguely matched Bofur’s, clutching his own pipe.
“Good mornin', love,” Bofur said cheerily.
“Did you see the half-man half-bear man Mister Beorn, too?” asked Sam, popping the last blueberry into his mouth.
Thorin nodded his head, tucking his pipe back into his pocket. It was common courtesy not to smoke around pebbles, after all.
“Of course,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “He proved to be a very helpful ally. Though he didn't much like dwarves, he found orcs to be worse. And he liked Bilbo very much indeed.”
Sam nodded wisely, wiping his sticky hands on his shorts before squirming off the bench again.
“Thank you for the story, Mister Bofur,” he said, clasping his hands behind him. “Do you think Frodo will come over soon?”
“How could he not, with such a fine hobbit like yourself waitin' for him here, hmn?” grinned Bofur, ruffling Sam's curls and giving him back the emptied basket.
Thorin took his place beside Bofur, their knees brushing.
“I heard from Bilbo we were to expect Frodo this Sunday, for a few days,” he said, running his hand over his beard, still kept short and now shot through with mithril strands.
Sam all but jumped in excitement, letting out a whoop of joy and running back to his father in the garden, clambering through the same hole in the hedge.
Thorin and Bofur lit their pipes again, sitting in comfortable silence as the day began. Bofur yawned, slinging his arm around Thorin's shoulders, watching the other dwarf's perfect smoke rings drift upwards. He could never get the hang of them, but Thorin and Bilbo had frequent competitions and an intricate scoring system.
The front door opened a short while later, a mildly rumpled hobbit appearing with a tray of steaming mugs.
“Very rude, you know, to desert the bedroom and not leave even a cup of tea in your stead,” Bilbo grumbled, putting the tray down on the little outdoor table Thorin had built. He elbowed his way between the bracket of their arms and picked up his tea. Thorin took his black coffee, handing the one with milk and honey in it to Bofur.
“My apologies. I heard voices outside. Thank you,” Thorin murmured, taking a sip of his coffee as Bilbo sniffed.
“And your excuse?” he asked, turning to look at Bofur.
“Well, pebble-sitting, of course,” Bofur grinned, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Bilbo's cheek.
The hobbit hummed, glancing over to where a tiny, muddy Sam was helping his father plant seeds into the freshly dug earth.
Bofur took a mouthful of his coffee, hot and sweet. With Bilbo nestled into his side and Thorin's broad back warm under his palm, with the sun shining warm over him and the soft sound of a pebble's laughter and chatter in the distance, Bofur had never felt more at home. He could smell earth and stone, coffee and grass and pipe-smoke, and everything he could see was green and peaceful.
Not that he didn't miss Erebor and the Blue Mountains, of course. But they were a different type of home, and they made the journey often enough to soothe the ache in his chest. He'd grown up sleeping under stars and wooden roofs, after all.
Always on the move, never belonging anywhere.
But, Bofur thought as he breathed in deeply and felt the serenity of the Shire wash over him, that wasn't true anymore. Not with Bilbo and Thorin on each arm, and a bed built big enough for three.
He belonged here.