Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So … weak ankles, hu?”

“Indeed. Runs in the family, you see? My great uncle even had the moniker, but `Mungo with the weak ankle´ is a bit of a mouthful, so we shortened it.”

Bullshit, that what this was. He didn’t know much about Hobbits, but a race that went gallivanting across the country at all times while refusing to wear shoes or even socks couldn’t have weak ankles and the lass in his arms had claimed to be of one of their oldest and most numerous families. That was about as unlikely as an Orc tending to a flower orchard, but every protest fled his mind when he caught her stare.

Dwalin was used to being starred at. He was tall for a Dwarf, scared and his resting face looked as if he was one wrong word form gruesomely murdering everyone within a two mile radius. Every inch the warrior he fancied himself to be. Or had. There was a difference between a warrior and a sell sword, mostly in the honour associated with them and where their loyalties lay, but no matter if warrior or sell sword or common thug, Dwalin was used to be starred at and that said stares more often than not mirrored fear even among those he had called kin.

Now he had neither kin nor kith and his beard only because everyone only ever saw the brawl and assumed he lacked in brains. He may not have Balin’s mind for history and politics, but battle tactics didn’t formulate themselves and if more people were aware of that he would likely get even more fearful stares.

Except for Hobbits.

 “And what did you call him?”

“Artie.”

Hobbits were the oddest creatures Dwalin had ever encountered. He had travelled every land between the Grey Mountains and the borders of Rhûn and Harad – one of the most valuable pieces of advice he had ever received was to never travel where he couldn’t talk himself out of being arrested – and nothing had prepared him for the small round creatures with beardless faces, hairy feet and a fierce love everything that grew, preferable of the eatable variation. And they were brave.

After travelling everywhere else Dwalin had gone west and come to Bree. There had been more Dwarrow there than he usually was comfortable with, but his long years wandering had darkened his skin and changed his features. Even if someone remembered him, he didn’t think anyone would recognise him like this and he could pretend the stares and whispers were because of his exotic clothes and braids.

The Hobbits had stared and whispered as well and then one petit lass with honey curls had sidled up to him and started flirting. That, too, Dwalin was used to; people taking his size and bearing as a challenge or an adventure and for a long time it certainly had been pleasant to be able to find partners for a tumble wherever he went, but he hadn’t been in the mood and told the lass as much. She’d been disappointed, sure, but stayed anyway, waving her cousins over.

To Dwalin’s surprise it had been a very pleasant evening. He had told his stories, heard many in return and he had been invited several times to join them in the Shire. He had never intended to take them up on it. In fact, he had been set to go the opposite directing when he had tripped over the lass again, or rather she over him. It had resulted in a twisted ankle and big, pleading eyes and Dwalin was many thing, including apparently entirely helpless to big, green eyes.

And that was how he had ended up with an armful of Hobbit, carrying her through the Shire and noticing that it weren’t just these particular Hobbits staring at him with everything but fear.

“How did you go from `Mungo with the weak ankle´ to Artie?”

“Funny story, actually” the lass started another outrageous story while her cousins tried not to laugh and Dwalin let them, because people always had stared and whispered in fear. The Hobbits had only ever treated him with respect and curious awe, asked for everything he was willing to tell of his travels and never more.

He liked the Hobbits, simple as that, and leaving now or later would hardly make a difference. Spending a few days among the Hobbits with good food and ale and a soft bed sounded like just what his weary bones needed.

Chapter Text

Hobbits were a very insular people. Not as secretive as Dwarrow and neither as elusive as the Elves, but they were quite happy that no one outside of Eriador knew they even existed and accordingly suspicious of strangers. Some said it had gotten worse in recent years, but most thought that to be utter nonsense. Hobbits had never liked to leave their lands to begin with and who could blame them? And those that did leave were as easy going and curious and gossiping as ever. Sure, there were claims that the Bounders suddenly had better weapons and training, but, really, what were you doing to be a judge of that? Those that annoyed the Hobbits so much they actually did something so very much against their nature as invest time better spend celebrating in training really had no grounds to complain about feeling watched the moment they enter the Shire and have you heard about poor Miss Baggins? Gave her heart to an outsider and he left and you know she is part Took, part Baggins. If there is one thing that can unite those clans it’s poor Bluebell Baggins’ tears.

Hearing such talk Bofur could hardly hold back the laughter bubbling in his chest. He had been all over the Shire himself, selling clever toys and trinkets to the incredible amount of children running wild in the soft rolling hills.

He had discovered three truths for himself in that time: Hobbits were incredible protective of their loved ones, they wielded lies of omission better than any sword and Mistress Bluebell’s pies won the annual harvest fest every year for a reason, but were nothing compared to her oatmeal cookies.

Mistress Bluebell had given her heart to an outsider or three, alright and sure didn’t like it when they left, but at least one returned every evening from the forge and the others as often as they could. It were also those same say cookies that had earned Mistress Bluebell a proposal and the tears uniting the clans were those from her wedding day. The half-truths all served the single purpose of protecting the smith in the most effective way they had: by preventing people from even considering he might be in the Shire.

Bofur was alright with that; very, very alright. He may have loved Nori first and fiercely, but another thing he had discovered was that dwarven love was not a jealous and single-minded as one would be made to believe. In fact, they were very able share and not less fierce for it and so Bofur gladly furthered any and all believe that the smith of Hobbiton didn’t exist and that included not letting anyone know that there were massages being passed on since the moment their little company entered the Shire. Not all of it went to Mistress Bluebell, of course, but the Hobbits were at all times aware where they were and where they were going. The moment it became apparent that Hobbiton was their goal, at least one of the children supposedly running home would head for the forge, another for Bag End and Bofur wondered how nobody else was seeing it. Then again, he was as at home in the Shire as in Khagolabbad and being married to the greatest thief of Arda came with more advantages than just a pretty redhead in his bed ... well and more disadvantages than having to bail his lover out of jail now and then, which is why they were here now, on a suicide quest.

They found Balin in front of a familiar, round, green door, highly confused, because of course Mistress Bluebell had been expecting someone, but certainly not Balin and a displeased Mistress Bluebell was not something to be trifled with.

That was a lesson they were all about to learn, because just as Bofur set on to comment the door swung open and Bluebell Baggins stood there in all her furious glory, arms crossed brandishing a solid iron pan like it weighted nothing and Bofur’s back went ramrod straight even before she turned her attention on him.

“Bofur Balfurul! I hope you have a damn good explanation for all this. Where is your other half?”

“Annoying the smith, Mistress Bluebell.”

She gave him The Look and Bofur leaned to the side just to be certain there wasn’t anyone hiding behind the lass.

“He’s fucking the smith” he corrected, completely ignoring the shocked gasps around him. They were used to worse language, so was Mistress Bluebell and she was accordingly unimpressed. “Didn’t want to die without having that cock again and we will die. Tharkûn convinced the king to reclaim Azsâlulabad from the dragon and Nori got himself into trouble we couldn’t talk him out of again. Hence us along for the ride and apparently Tharkûn also was convinced there lives a burglar in this very smial to be dragged along, so it’s all his fault and we really need your help, please.”

Mistress Bluebell took the information with stoic calm, as opposed to those around them, who were even more shocked about him giving away their play than about what they thought was crass language.

Honestly though, there had apparently been plans to drag Mistress Bluebell along on this `quest´ and until now they had been operating under the assumption their `burglar´ already knew about everything and had agreed to join their quest. Seeing as everything was a lie telling her the truth was just the polite thing to do.

“Right. That’s an insane plan, not that I expect anything better from Gandalf. He came by this morning spouting nonsense about an adventure, if you believe it. As if I’d ever go anywhere with that batty old fart. Bofur, inside, now. The rest of you shoo. I’d advise you get out of the Shire as fast as you can, but the hour is late and the Green Dragon should have free rooms. It’s down the path and then just follow the water downstream. You can’t miss it.”

“Gladly, Mistress Bluebell, but that’s not quite so easy.”

The miner turned toy maker then proceeded to introduce Nori’s brothers as well as his own and his cousin. The Dwarrow in question where highly confused, of course, but Mistress Bluebell took that, too, with remarkable calm, belied only by a shaky intake.

“Mildew.”

Bofur instantly relaxed and opened his arms as an offering the other gladly accepted.

“Want me to get the big guy, Bilbo?”

“No need, truly. What I need is a drink.”

*~*~*

The Green Dragon was Bilbo’s destination of choice after all, because she sure as pie wouldn’t let this bunch into her home. It was supposed to be a save place for her and her family and it could hardly be called save if everyone could just enter as they pleased. There are emergency procedures in place for situations like this, but they had never involved relatives of her darlings so they were put on hold for the time being. For now getting everyone drunk and make them tell her everything they needed to know to make them leave again, preferable without any of her Dwarrows.

And suddenly everything went to Mordor when a faunt with red hair standing in all directions appeared in the room and Bilbo lost her composure along with Dori, because he knew that dirt smudged face but she knew the faunt.

“Loki! The Void you doing here?”

“We just wanted to see them.”

“We? Who is ... oh, by Yavanna’s hairy toes! Dwain, Sildur, front and centre! You boys are in huge trouble! Who else is here?”

A gruff looking youngster with a shock of black curls and a third lad with brown whiskers and a missing front tooth stood with Loki. A few younger kids poked out their heads and the smallest girl bounced Bofur and hid her honey curls in his arms.

Much to the shock of same said Dwarrow the usually jovial Dwarf wouldn’t have any of it.

“Ah ah, princess. I’m happy to see you, too, all of you, but you dug this hole and now you gotta sit in it.”

“Right. We ... we will deal with this later. Now, go back to Aunt Daisy and tell her what you did. She will know what to do and collect you siblings. And apologise to Dwalis. Poor girl must be worried out of her mind.”

There was a chorus of “yes, ma” and the children shuffled out, passing Bofur and hugging him and doing the same with Nori when the other Dwarf limped in with a shit eating grin. He hugs them back and ruffles hairs seemingly at random and then siddles up to Bilbo, sandwiching her between him and Bofur.

“Hello, luv. Wouldn’t have thought to see the kids here.”

“Loki’s idea, no doubt. I’m blaming you.”

“Now now, luv. You’re doing the raising and you do mighty fine. Kid just go my restless feet. Take him on a trip, let him go wild. That ought to settle him somewhat for a while. So ... I take it you already got the short and the long of it? I, uh, kind of told the big guy about it. He’s not happy.”

“Neither am I. Sweet Eru, I’m too sober for this mess.”

Bofur pushed his cup to the Hobbit, who pushed it away again.

“Only tea for me, thank you very much.”

“But you only ... wait, again? Hurumab Mahal!”

“Yes, well, are you complaining?”

“Nope. Not complaining, not me. You’re a treasure, luv. I, uh, guess I better talk with my brothers now. You have a plan, right. Tell me you have a plan.”

“Of course” Bilbo replied and leaned closer to Bofur when the other Dwarf was dragging his stunned brothers to a more private corner.

“Get him some of Hobson’s moonshine. The dear man is near hysteric. And talk to your brother and cousin. I’ve got everything under control.”

“Never doubted that, dear.”

The remaining company had watched the entire exchanged in various states of shock and naturally tried to ask questions now that they had the attention of their `host´ again, but suddenly all the Hobbits were all over them, asking smart questions and somehow the cups were never empty. Someone wanted to mention where Nori and his brothers had suddenly gone to, but the meat pies distracted them and then Bombur left to exchange recipes with the cook and baker and Bifur followed a sweet lass talking a mile an hour about eatable flowers of all things.

At one point a young girl with a black crest of hair stormed in and started a very one sided shouting match with Balin about the duties of an older sibling before a thundercloud rolled in like a landslide and whisked her away.

By the time Thorin and Gandalf found them the sky was already brighten again and only Glóin and Óin were left, snoring in a corner, while Balin was sitting with Fíli and Kíli, all three sporting sombre expressions and nursing a pot of tea each. And Bilbo was there, slightly rumbled, rings under her eyes, but that did nothing to lessen the effect of her sinister smile.

“Good morning. Thorin, son of Thrain, I presume? Before you start: whatever the old fart told you was a lie. The Grey One hasn’t been seen in the Shire for almost thirty years until last morning and no one in the Shire wishes to join you. On that note, Grey One, with their breakfast the heads of the houses will be informed that you tried to trick or force me into going on a suicide quest. I’m sure the Thain will be thrilled to hear that you tried to kidnap a pregnant woman.”

“Where is my company?” Thorin thundered, completely missing the point as far as Bilbo was concerned, but she was too tired and too angry to care much

“Right over there.”

“That’s but a third of those that signed on.”

“I could tell you we are Fae and whisked them away and that those five are either too young, too old and too set in their ways to be of interest to us, but I’m tired so I’ll give you the short of it: I know dwarven law and you forced my husbands and by extension their kin into your servitude, which makes all contracts to that matter null and void. And as you can only banish those that are present, justified or not, we brought them where you can’t find them until my uncle – the Thain I mentioned earlier. Our version of a king, by the way – wrote your sister.”

“Husbands?”

“That’s what you get out of this? Yes, husbands. By Shire law at least and considering we are in the Shire I dare say it’s a valid claim. Now take my advice and go back as fast as you can. You won’t get my family, not a single one of them. So be glad it’s my husbands and their kin that vanished temporarily, because I could just as well let a Dwarf king vanish. Permanently.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should, laddie” Balin intercepted. “Though we buy it from the Men, more than half our provisions come from the Shire. If we upset them even more we stand to lose much more.”

“I’ll speak with ’amad. Without the middleman we would save a small fortune” Fíli mused and Bilbo pointed out that negotiations would be limited to letters, because after today they should be grateful if any Dwarf ways ever allowed to enter the Shire again. Naturally that set of Thorin again while Gandalf was still struggling with the concept of possible banishment and that talk about husbands and pregnancy.

“Kíli and I will go back” Fíli confirmed. “Dreams of grandeur are all nice and well, but we didn’t even make it to Bree and already lost more than half the company. We’re definitely not ready for that sort of quest, so well will go back and train a few more years.”

“Or decades” Kíli added.

“Or decades, yes. ’Amad never wanted us to go anyway. We should listen to her.”