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Bilbo sat at his writing desk and glared at the manuscript before him. Dozens of pieces of paper littered the floor around him. Some had been torn in anger, ripped right in half, or shredded into fine confetti, while others had been crumpled into tightly wadded balls.
All betrayed the current mood of the master of the house and spoke far too loudly of the lack of progress on his book.
A low hum caught Bilbo’s attention from the doorway, and he turned to find his husband leaning against the frame, inspecting the paper carnage on the floor. “Going well, then?”
Bilbo snorted, and then sputtered, caught between agreement and indignation. His nose twitched. “As well as it ever does, I suppose.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t think just… writing it all down would be such a task! I mean, I was there, I lived it! And yet the words—” Bilbo stopped short with a groan. “They will not come. And I cannot make them.”
“Perhaps a break is in order then, some food?” Thorin proposed, and Bilbo heard the hopeful note in his voice, buried as it was beneath his suggestion.
“Hungry, are you?” Bilbo asked, smirking, his mood lifting. It had been an adjustment for them both, returning to the Shire after their adventure, but for Thorin most of all, who had lived a rough kind of life and was used to hardship. The lazy mornings abed and multiple breaks throughout the day for meals had been his greatest difficulty. But, he had adapted, and Bilbo was privately satisfied whenever he caught the dwarf making new notches in his belt.
“We both are,” Thorin said, and guided Frodo forward, his large palm almost covering the boy’s head like a helm.
Bilbo smiled kindly at his nephew, who offered an eager, hopeful grin in return. His heart still ached for the boy, and for the loss of his parents. Drogo and Primula had been Hobbits of uncommon character, and very fine sense. Primula, though his niece by marriage, had understood more than anyone why Bilbo had gone on his adventure — and how he had returned with a Dwarf for a partner.
Their loss had grieved him, and in truth he was still not fully recovered.
“Well, perhaps a break would be good then, hm?” Bilbo said and left his desk, and his wretched, uncooperative manuscript where it lay on his desk. “So, tell me, what have you two been up to today?” he asked, pausing in front of them to take in their slightly disheveled appearance.
There was a smudge of dirt on Frodo’s cheek, almost unnoticeable but for the clean patch of skin where someone had used their thumb to rub it off. More than that, Bilbo noted, the boy’s vest had been buttoned incorrectly, the buttons not all lined up with their buttonholes.
“Nothing much!” Frodo lied, his wide blue eyes begging to be believed.
Bilbo hummed, and turned his disapproving gaze to his husband, who refused to meet his eyes.
“Oh? Well, that’s a pity,” Bilbo tsked and wandered back to his desk after a moment’s thought, shuffling through the papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for. “You see,” he began, and made a great show of unfolding the papers. “I have letters here, from Ori, and others — from Erebor, in fact.”
Both Thorin and Frodo perked up, standing a little straighter.
“And I would love to share it with you but I’m afraid it does contain some rather interesting stories — ones that might frighten scared little hobbits or unsettle cantankerous old dwarves.” he said apologetically. “Stories that, I’m quite certain, could only be heard by stout adventurers.”
“I’m a stout adventurer!” Frodo cried, eyes widening further in panic at the thought that he might not get to hear the news from Erebor.
Frodo had an adventurer’s heart — came by it honestly, on his mother’s side — but he was a Hobbit, through and through, and loved things that most Hobbits did — especially gossip.
Bilbo saw Thorin’s lips twitch, though he did not offer their nephew any respite by owning to whatever they had spent their afternoon doing.
Thorin, of course, knew that Bilbo loved to tell stories, and to not share the letters would be as much a punishment to himself as to Frodo. So, he said nothing, and worried not at all knowing that Bilbo would tell them eventually.
Frodo, however, was young and still susceptible to such guile.
“We were at the river!” he blurted out, the confession tumbling from his lips at breakneck speed.
The smile fell from Bilbo’s face.
Thorin met his gaze and held it, steady and steadfast as he always was, firm but compassionate.
“I see,” Bilbo muttered, and swallowed heavily. He let out a large breath and took another, trying to calm his now racing heart and the anger he could feel beginning to swell within him.
“Frodo, lad, why don’t you go change your clothes and wash up, hm?” Thorin suggested, ruffling the boy’s black curls. “We’ll settle in for supper, and stories, in short order, I’m sure.”
Frodo obeyed, though he cast Bilbo a guilty, anxious look over his shoulder before doing so.
Bilbo let out another puff of air and tapped his foot against the floor, shaking his head. “The river?” he asked, clenching his teeth.
His own memories of rivers and lakes were not fond ones, generally speaking. Barrels, and dragons, had quite ruined any affection he had for bodies of water in general. He did not even fish anymore.
That Drogo and Primula had died in a boating accident in the Brandywine had not helped.
He did not like that his nephew had been swimming in it least of all.
“The boy cannot live in fear,” Thorin murmured, and shrugged. “What happened was a terrible accident. But we cannot keep him cloistered and afraid. His whole life is before him, perhaps even an adventure or two, and rivers are bound to be part of them.”
Bilbo wanted to argue just on the principle of it.
Frodo was a Baggins, and while he had a lively spirit, he would surely be a Baggins of Bag-End and would call this place his home for-ever, as his forebears had. Frodo liked his second breakfast, and romping in the garden, and snuggling into Bilbo’s favorite armchair with a good book.
And no meddling wizard would drag him from it, at the peril of losing life or limb, if Bilbo had anything to say about it.
Not ever.
Frodo had no need to conquer his fear of water, not when he would live comfortably within the Shire all his life.
A heavy hand laid on his shoulder and pulled Bilbo from the downward spiral of his thoughts. Thorin looked at him kindly, and Bilbo settled under his gaze, his shoulders slumping.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Bilbo grumbled, wrinkling his nose. “When did you get so soft, anyway?”
Thorin smiled, not taking the bait at his jibe.
It had been many years since Thorin had taken up his sword. In the decades after he called the Shire home, his temper had calmed too, for the most part. Reclaiming Erebor, seeing Fili come into his own, settled on Thrór’s throne, had lifted a heavy burden from his shoulders. Choosing to leave the crown on his nephew’s brow and abdicate had not been an easy decision, Bilbo knew.
But it was the right one.
The rebuilding of kingdoms was a task for the young, and the forging of alliances for one who was not predisposed to old prejudice.
When news reached them of a trade alliance between Erebor and Mirkwood, with Elves regularly coming and going from the mountain, Thorin had — unasked — spent several days out of doors cutting and logging trees from the forest nearby.
No hearth in the Shire went cold that winter for lack of wood.
He had settled though, over time, and as his circumstances grew softer, so too did he. Though, Bilbo noted, his pride had not lessened in the slightest, in that they were well-matched, too.
Bag-End had always been very fine. One of the finest smials in the Shire, possibly even beyond. It was well-crafted, well-furnished, and cozy and warm, with a very pretty, well-maintained garden to boot.
Bilbo had always been proud of it.
But it was now home to a dwarf, and a dwarf of great skill at that, and Bag-End now had splendor. Fine carvings and shapely embellishments had appeared slowly over the years. Not quite so ostentatious as to offend the neighbors, mind, but far grander than anything else the Shire had seen.
Some doubtless considered it gauche, but Bilbo paid them little mind.
It brought Thorin great joy to make the additions to their home, and Bilbo would not jeopardize that for anything.
Even if he thought — privately, mind — that precious stones had no place in wall décor, and certainly not in his kitchen.
“Frodo will be fine,” Thorin assured him. “I was with him the whole time, and I would not let anything happen to him, Ghivashelê.”
Bilbo rocked on his heels and felt a blush rising to his cheeks.
Forty years together and the sound of Khuzdul from his lips still sent a pool of warmth right to his belly.
They were old men now, though Bilbo certainly did not look his age at all, or feel it, most days. Such thoughts were less frequent anymore. Especially with a child in the house.
It did not stop him from thinking about how Frodo liked to dally, though, and if they hurried—
Bilbo spied the small smirk in the corner of Thorin’s mouth, and sneered in return, knowing that he had been baited despite his best efforts.
Cheeky dwarf.
“I fear—” Bilbo cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. “I just want him to be safe. He is still so young, and the accident was not so long ago…”
“Learning to swim, being around water, will help him master his fears, and prepare him for the future. Better that he does it now, when there is someone to watch over him, yes?”
Bilbo shrugged but muttered his agreement. Thorin was right. It did not settle his fears. But he couldn’t deny the wisdom of it all.
“Still,” Bilbo grumbled. “Such… excursions should be better planned! He came home covered in mud, and his clothes will all need to be laundered. It’s no wonder the neighbors wag their tongues at us raising him — him coming home like that!”
All of that was, of course, a gross exaggeration as Frodo had only been slightly out of sorts when he arrived home, and only upon close inspection.
And not a single neighbor had ever even intimated that Frodo was less than perfectly respectable.
But, after forty years together, Thorin had learned to pick his battles, and allowed Bilbo his minor tantrum, and the last word, which was what Bilbo truly cared about.
“As you say, Bilbo,” Thorin acquiesced, and kissed his brow. “We will take better care in the future. But shall we have some supper, and look over those letters?”
Bilbo nodded, satisfied that he had won their argument, and made his way to the kitchen. Much of supper had already been prepared, as Bilbo frequently visited his kitchen throughout the day to make tea and often busied his hands while waiting for the water to boil. Thorin had brought home a few fat trout to serve alongside the hot stew, mashed potatoes, fresh baked rosemary bread, and warm apple pie, and that took little time at all to prepare.
It was a light fare for supper, but Bilbo rather thought he had outdone himself for lunch.
Frodo, as expected, had dallied before coming to the table, and arrived just as all the plates were being set out. They all tucked into supper with little fanfare, though Bilbo did make a point of asking Frodo more about his adventure that day, if only to show the boy he wasn’t angry. And Frodo obliged him, then, and happily told him about how Thorin was teaching him to swim and to fish, and which lures to use that were best.
Bilbo was relieved to find that the boy did not seem to harbor the same fear of water that he had, despite what happened to his parents, and was heartened by it.
Frodo, however eager as he was to share his own adventures, was equally eager to hear about their friends’ in Erebor, and Bilbo did not have the heart to deny him — so long as he helped clean up after their meal. All three worked in tandem to clear the table and wash their dishes in hardly any time at all and retired to the sitting room to relax before their final meal.
Thorin was settled in his chair by the fire, hands folded across his lap, not quite dozing though his eyes were closed. Bilbo took his usual spot on the sofa and Frodo sat beside him, eyeing the letters in his hands hungrily. Seeing the eagerness on the boy’s face, and feeling a little mischievous, Bilbo fumbled with his reading glasses for a minute or two before dropping them on the carpet.
“Oh! Goodness, how clumsy of me,” he muttered, and carefully put on his most innocent expression.
Frodo scowled at him, entirely unamused and certainly not tricked, and fetched them, using the edge of his shirt to clean them, before returning them to Bilbo.
“Thank you,” Bilbo said, and put the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Now, where is my letter opener?”
Frodo groaned. “Uncle!” He protested, lip jutting out. “Just rip it!”
Bilbo huffed. “One does not simply—”
“Here,” Thorin interrupted, cracking one eye open to toss Frodo the small flat blade he kept in his pocket, and gave Bilbo a knowing look. “Anything else?” he asked, voice low and a little sleepy.
“No,” Bilbo sniffed, a little annoyed that his fun had been put to an abrupt end. Though, he supposed, Frodo wasn’t the only one eager to hear news from the mountain. Without further trickery or complaint, he opened the first letter, from Ori, and carefully skimmed over the contents.
“Don’t just read it to yourself!” Frodo complained, looking between Bilbo and Thorin.
“Alright, alright, peace,” Bilbo said, and cleared his throat.
“Dear Bilbo & Thorin & Frodo,
I hope this letter finds you well and in good health. I will start by saying all is well in the Mountain, and we are greatly looking forward to your visit next spring. I have finally finished the reorganization of Erebor’s library and have created a very detailed catalogue, as you recommended Bilbo, and am eager to show you my work. I have also, at last, published my very own book of poetry, and have set aside a signed copy just for you when you visit. I am very grateful for all of your encouragement, and all your letters letting me practice my Elvish—”
“Elvish?” Thorin asked, looking at Bilbo aghast. “For what purpose could Ori have to learn—”
Bilbo tutted. “Trade between Erebor and the Greenwood is growing, Thorin, and Ori has become quite a fine scribe and ambassador.”
“You did not tell me you were teaching him Elvish,” Thorin grumbled, a mulish sort of frown on his face.
“What’s wrong with learning Elvish?” Frodo asked, confused. He had seen Thorin become agitated with the mention of Elves but he had never been told why.
“Nothing is wrong with learning anything,” Bilbo said, looking at Thorin over the top of the letter sternly, and in a tone that warned of brussels sprouts and cabbage stew for dinner for the next week.
“Oh,” Frodo said, frowning, and then brightened. “Is it because you wanted Uncle Bilbo to teach you Elvish, Uncle Thorin?”
Bilbo bit his tongue hard enough to bleed. Laughter crawled up his throat and threatened to escape and fill the room. His cheeks puffed up with air, undoubtedly growing ruddy in the firelight, and he managed to swallow it all — just barely — though he did need to cough to relieve some pressure.
Silence filled the room instead, and after a solid minute or two Bilbo risked looking at his partner over the top of the letter.
Thorin licked his lips several times, his mouth opening and closing with no words coming out, before Bilbo took pity on him.
“Thorin just likes to know things, Frodo,” Bilbo answered. “Thorin speaks the language of the dwarves, which is a secret .”
The temptation of a secret language was far more alluring than the novelty of learning Elvish, and Frodo turned his large blue eyes on Thorin once more, this time in hope.
“Will you teach me how to speak it?” Frodo asked, leveraging himself halfway off the sofa to catch the dwarf’s avoidant gaze. “Please? I’m sure it’s so much more elegant than Elvish, and far more difficult to learn.”
Bilbo did not hide his chuckle, this time. Frodo was a Hobbit through and through, and could flatter with the best of them. And as Hobbit children were among the cutest — of that there could be no argument — Bilbo was not surprised in the slightest to see Thorin sit up in his armchair a little straighter, and his disgruntled look fading into pride.
There was, however, a problem, and Bilbo knew it was coming as Thorin once again struggled to find the right words.
“The language of my people is a secret to be known only to my people, Frodo. It is part of our culture, our heritage. And while I would love to share it with you, you are not a dwarf, and so I cannot teach you.”
Frodo’s bottom lip quivered, and Bilbo saw the strain it took on Thorin, who was beginning to turn rather pale.
“I’ll teach you Elvish first, Frodo,” Bilbo said, drawing the attention of their nephew back to him. “And you can petition to learn Khuzdul from King Fili directly when we go to Erebor next spring.”
Frodo brightened considerably with his hope restored, and Thorin gave him a grateful — if slightly irritated — look. “Oh, I don’t think I asked, but why are we going to Erebor in the spring?” Frodo asked, and Bilbo could see the next question already on his lips — why can’t we go now?
“Fili’s son, Fror, is being formally named as his heir and successor. There’s going to be a big party, with people from all over the country. And we are going to be representing the Shire!” Bilbo exclaimed, winking at his nephew.
Frodo’s eyes grew large. “We should start immediately, then,” Frodo said, and stood from his spot on the couch.
Bilbo laughed and waved the letters in his hands. “You don’t want me to finish reading these first?”
Frodo froze, for a moment, caught between his desire to hear news and gossip from so far away, and his desire to be immediately prepared for potentially interacting with Elves next spring.
“Well, perhaps we can read them, and then you can begin teaching me Elvish!”
“Tomorrow,” Bilbo promised, and ignored the disgruntled snort disguised as a cough from his husband, who was certainly scowling though Bilbo did not look at him to confirm it.
“Now then, where was I. . .” Bilbo cleared his throat and picked up the letter from Ori where it had left off.
— I’m sure that they will come in great use over the coming months. Additionally, I do not know if you recall, for it was so very long ago, but in looking through some of my old things, I believe I have found one of your belt buckles!”
“I knew that it had not been properly lost!” Bilbo complained, scowling. “My buttons were bad enough, but that buckle was my great-grandfather’s, and he said it had belonged to the Bullroarer himself!”
I shall be very glad to keep it for you until you & Thorin & young Frodo — who we are all very eager to meet, of course — come next Spring.
The buckle was still attached the holster we made to carry you after you were injured—
“You were hurt, Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked, fresh concern coloring his voice.
“Oh, well,” Bilbo coughed and swallowed the slight tickle in his throat.
“Indeed, Frodo,” Thorin confirmed in a tone entirely too gentle to be genuine. Bilbo snuck a glance at Thorin from over the top of the letter and met his husband’s gaze, noting the mischief in it. “So injured, in fact, that we all had to take turns carrying him — like a babe, on our backs. While we were making the trek across field and forest, running for our lives, he was taking naps and practicing his needlework.”
“Now, wait a minute— ” Bilbo tutted, shaking his head in disagreement. “That is not entirely true at all — not at all.”
“Which part, Uncle?” Frodo asked, looking between them in confusion.
“Yes, Bilbo, which part?” Thorin asked, carefully packing his pipe with Old Toby and preparing to light it.
“There is nuance, you see! Nuance! First,” Bilbo began, and hastily stood to make his way in front of the hearth. “I had a very large gash on my foot, Frodo, right on the sole! Split it right open on a sharp rock when we were fleeing from Orcs!”
Frodo gasped, looking at the soles of his own feet in horror.
Hobbits, of course, did not wear shoes. They did not need to with the soles of their feet being as naturally tough as leather, and their natural habitat being formed of gentle fields and rolling hills.
That Bilbo had injured his was, perhaps, the most dreadful injury Frodo could think of.
“I would not have been able to run!”
“…wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d been wearing boots,” Thorin muttered, and took a long drag off his pipe.
Bilbo ignored him.
“ So, I hopped on Dwalin’s back as we ran! And the next time we stopped, Dori and Bifur fashioned a holster to help keep me aloft so the dwarf carrying me would be able to keep his hands free in case of a fight.”
Frodo nodded, for this seemed like a truly sensible idea.
“Now, I was determined to do my part even though I couldn’t run—”
Thorin snorted and earned himself a sharp glare from his husband.
“— so , I did what I could do! With all the scrapes we had been in, our cloaks were nearly in tatters, and holes had been worn clean through in our socks and the like. I mended them while I was impaired; all the better to keep our bits from freezing off later, eh?”
“And the naps?” Frodo asked, having not forgotten Thorin’s jibe.
Thorin smirked.
Bilbo coughed and rocked on his heels. “Well, healing is hard work, my boy! When you are ill, you must rest to recover, mustn’t you? And there was only so much I could do, truly,”
Frodo again nodded, for that is what he did when he was ill.
Bilbo smiled, satisfied that he had won this argument fairly and fully, and removed himself to his proper seat on the sofa.
“You know, though, I do remember things being somewhat different,” Thorin said, blowing a large smoke ring into the fire. “Is it the general practice of Hobbits to omit certain details when they tell tales?” he asked, keeping his face carefully blank.
Bilbo, of course, could see right through his façade, and the devious smirk lurking beneath the surface. He sputtered, sitting up a little straighter.
“What, exactly, are you implying?”
“I imply nothing,” Thorin denied, shrugging. “I am still unfamiliar with many of your customs. I only know that when dwarves tell stories, we make it a grand affair, and we lavish our listeners with details.”
“Are you saying that my way of telling a story is boring ?” Bilbo asked, affronted, and sucked his lips between his teeth. He hastily folded the letter and set it aside, crossing his arms across his chest, and waited.
“Not boring, Ghivashelê, just. . . lacking in details,” Thorin said, appearing to appease his husband.
Bilbo knew better. The glint in his eye was as familiar as the dawn now, and he knew very well when he was being teased.
“Oh, well, by all means, show us the wonders of Dwarvish storytelling, then!”
Thorin smiled and stood, passing his pipe to Bilbo, and rolled up his sleeves as he stood before them.
“It was terribly dark, Frodo, when Bilbo fell—”
Bilbo withheld a sigh and settled into the sofa, listening to Thorin offer his own retelling of his injury and convalescence.
“—now, when the time came for me to take my turn to carry him, I was weary, but I was more than willing—”
It was Bilbo’s turn to snort now, which he did, and did not attempt to hide it. By his recollection, Thorin had been very unhappy to have to carry the Hobbit anywhere.
“—because I realized how heartsick his injury had made me feel.”
Bilbo cocked his head in confusion, and realized that he had not, in fact, ever heard this story from Thorin’s own mouth.
“I had grown fond of him, despite myself, and I was afraid that we might lose him if we did not see his injury cared for properly.”
Frodo wrinkled his nose at the intimation of his uncles’ burgeoning romance and turned his attention to what he considered to be the more interesting part of the story. “…you thought he was going to die because of a cut on his foot?”
Bilbo turned his affronted gaze on Frodo and sniffed. “It was a gash, Frodo! A large gash! Right on my sole!”
It had been a cut.
Long and thin, just deep enough to make him bleed, but a cut nonetheless.
Thorin laughed heartily, winking at Bilbo, before growing more serious. “Foot injuries can mean life or death on the road, Frodo. Think of all your feet endure — especially Hobbits, who do not wear shoes to protect them! Infection is as deadly as any orcish blade.”
Frodo narrowed his eyes, considering this for a long moment, before nodding and settling once more in his seat. “Alright.”
“As I was saying, I was worried for your uncle — very worried. It had been days since his injury, and yet he was still fatigued, sleeping every chance he got, and sneezing dreadfully when he was awake! And when the sun went down, he grew warm and feverish. I was certain that his wound had become infected.”
“Well, was it?” Frodo asked, growing irritated; his attention was already wavering, wandering back to the rest of the letters that Bilbo had yet to even open, and less interested in hearing how his uncles had fallen in love.
He did have to live with them, after all.
“As a matter of fact, no,” Thorin said, looking down his nose at his husband. “Bilbo, as it turned out, was simply allergic to the fur that lined the cloak Dori had loaned to him, and he had been wearing it from the first day of his injury.”
“What about the gash?” Frodo asked, frowning. “You didn’t notice that it was healing?”
Bilbo coughed, the tips of his ears turning red. “After the, ah, injury, I was persuaded to wear boots.”
Frodo looked at him aghast.
“With how quickly we needed to travel, we did not have time to stop and inspect the wound as often as we ought to have, and it was often in the dark of night. Oin, while a fine healer and herbalist, did not have the keenest of eyes, especially in the dark.”
“What about the fever?” he asked, picking at Bilbo’s other symptoms.
Thorin huffed and, crossing his arms in front of him, inclined his head for Bilbo to answer.
“The pain from the wound was, ah, immeasurable, Frodo, truly. Whenever we stopped to rest, I took a nip — a nip, mind you — from my flask of brandy to help with the pain. Brandy, my boy, also tends to, er, ruddy the cheeks and raise the temperature.”
Frodo crossed his arms across his chest, mimicking Thorin’s pose in silent camaraderie. “Uncle, were you even really injured?”
Bilbo gasped, hand flying to his chest. “Frodo,” he began, indignation creeping into his tone. “How could you think that I would lie?”
“All was well, in the end,” Thorin said, interrupting the righteous rebuke he could see brewing between the two. “Your Uncle’s foot healed in short order after a few days of rest, which he likely needed to begin with, and we had an opportunity to get to know one another better.”
That Bilbo remembered quite well, and a fond smile bloomed across his lips. Frodo’s accusation was quite forgotten. Even after his cut had healed, he had milked it, a little, to have an excuse to remain close to Thorin. At the time, the dwarf had not seen the whole truth of Bilbo’s machinations, and the resulting row between them had nearly ended things between them before it began. Yet, in the end, it did not, as both Bilbo and Thorin wound up unintentionally confessing their true feelings in the midst of it all.
Thorin returned the smile, dark eyes glittering with warmth in the firelight.
Bilbo barely felt the letters be pulled from his fingers as Frodo snatched them up and stood, wrinkling his nose, and directed a disgusted look in both of their directions.
“I’ll read these on my own, and you can have them back later!” He declared and marched resolutely to his room.
Neither Bilbo nor Thorin paid him any mind, and rather resituated themselves to lay together on the sofa in front of the fire, enjoying the warmth and familiar domesticity.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, Bilbo spoke again. “Since it was your storytelling that drove him off, I won.”
He felt the rumble of laughter in Thorin’s chest though the sound never escaped his lips.
“As you say, Bilbo.”
