Work Text:
The Dwarves rarely visited the Shire if ever.
It was usually a nice reprieve from the constant watching of their own backs when they visited. If Thorin was honest, it was tempting to stay with the carefree Hobbits.
At the same time, the peace and prosperity often irked him when his own people had suffered from exile, famine, raiders and bandits, and still, even now, had to contend with the poverty of the Blue Mountains.
Still, business was business and Thorin wasn’t going to be picky about who paid him for his wares. He kept close to the caravan save when he and Dwalin took to the forge and working on commissions usually to fix pots, pans, water pails, and occasionally cheap silverware.
Thorin directed wealthier hobbits to his nephews, assuring the gentlemen that their wives would enjoy a new pair of earrings or a bracelet. They usually thanked him for the recommendation and if not, he might see a woman with new jewel studs in her ears or a new locket and chain around her neck or a charm bracelet clasped to her wrist.
The boys’ talents with glass and gems would be unparalleled one day.
It’d been thirty years since he had last taken Fili and Kili to the Shire with him and Dwalin—at the time, the boys had just become journeymen in their craft. Thirty years since he came to the Shire and dealt with the peaceful Hobbits. “Dealt with” was sometimes the only way to describe them. For where peace thrived, so did bad gossips. Dwalin believed it came with having nothing better to do. Thorin believed his companion had a decent point.
They literally had nothing noteworthy to speak of.
No war.
No famine.
No attacks.
No…well…anything.
Just their gardens and who was the worst relation and packing away the food. Some hobbits were quite obese and others made Thorin wonder where they fit all the food they ate. Were some just more active? Did some have a higher metabolism?
“You’re brooding again,” Dwalin said, entering the sweltering forge.
It was mid-spring, the sun was shining outside. It wasn’t too hot or too cold and yet Thorin opted to be inside, banging away at what would eventually become a new water pail.
“Am not,” he said. “Someone’s got to keep the merchandise coming.”
“Fine, but someone’s got to stay out with at our stall while the other gets us something to eat.”
Thorin glanced at Dwalin, frowning. “You want me to deal with them for the fifteen minutes you’re getting food?” he asked. “Isn’t that a bad idea? The last time I was here, I made a baby cry.”
“Not hard. Just don’t scowl.”
“I’m not scowling!”
“Manage to smile a bit. You’ll be fine.”
“You just don’t want to stand outside anymore.”
Dwalin stared at him incredulously. Really, he seemed to say, that’s the best you can come up with? Thorin dropped his shoulders and set the half cylinder and hammer down.
“Fine,” he said, “But as soon as you’re back—”
Dwalin didn’t wait to hear the rest and Thorin went outside, wincing at the sun. It was brighter than he assumed and significantly cooler than inside the forge. The sun shone over the green fields and the cobblestone paths and the Baranduin River glimmered in the light.
Everything here was color, like a glorious mural painted onto a wall, depicting a promise.
Thorin leaned on the table, hovering over a set of iron cookware. Also displayed were some water pails, silverware, and gardening tools. The Hobbits strolled by in their odd clothes—Thorin wondered what sort of cloth they used to make them. Wool? Or was there something else? A few richer ones were dressed in silk.
Women walked alone freely and openly here in their bright skirts, flower print bonnets, and white cotton aprons, baskets held in the crook of their arms. Some walked with a male Hobbit, arms linked together. Others walked around with a bairn or two clutching a hand or apron. Older women usually traveled with their sons holding onto the purchases being made.
Thorin sighed, staring at the table.
Another boring day in the Shire…
He half wished someone would instigate a fight, just for the sake of entertainment. He could join in or start a betting pool. Despite popular belief, Thorin was no saint. He’d do nearly anything to keep food on the table for his sister and nephews…nearly.
He had his limits and things had never gotten bad enough that he’d dare push them and none really blamed him if they knew what limits he set for himself.
“Excuse me?”
Thorin lifted his head.
The Hobbit was male in dark blue trousers and a white satin shirt with a light blue silk cravat around his neck and a gold waist coat. His hair shone like gold in the sunlight and his eyes were grey-blue, like mist. Poking out between the gold threads of hair were pointed ears.
A lump formed in Thorin’s throat and he swallowed, trying to force it down so he could speak. “Yes? How may I help you?” It came out a bit mechanical. Beside that, he was proud he managed to speak at all. Thorin thanked Mahal that Dwalin was still fetching lunch.
“I was wondering how much the gardening tools are,” he said. “They’re exquisitely done.”
“My business partner would be glad to hear it,” Thorin said, handing the Hobbit a trowel. “They’re a silver coin a piece.”
“So five silver coins for a whole set?”
“Yes, with a free water pail as well,” Thorin said, watching the Hobbit examine the craftsmanship.
The Hobbit beamed. “Really?”
Thorn nodded. He usually didn’t throw deals of that sort around, but he’d dug his own grave now as a few other Hobbits who heard him gravitated over to the stall. He hoped to trick himself into thinking it’d go better than that.
The Hobbit took the deal and bade goodbye before Thorin could ask him his name.
#
“I don’t know what you did, but it was genius,” Dwalin said as he divided the pay into what the two of them would need for the week, along with what would be sent home to Dis and Balin. “Keep at it.”
“Sale.”
“What?” Dwalin asked, turning to him.
“I offered a sale,” he repeated, clearing his throat. “Buy or commission a garden set, get a water pail free.” Dwalin stared at him, eyes darkening. “I know! It was stupid, well not stupid but risky, but…”
He silenced trying to ignore Dwalin’s stare.
“What happened?” Dwalin asked, crossing his arms.
Thorin scratched his chin. “I may or may not have managed to sell those garden tools of yours by throwing in the water pail. Other customers overheard me.”
“You never do that.”
“I know.”
“So I’m still confused why you would this time.” Dwalin narrowed his eyes. “You were eying a Hobbit’s backside?”
“Not his backside per say,” Thorin mumbled. “But you’re implication is spot on.”
Dwalin ran his hand over his face. He was trying not to laugh. “You, Mister there’s-no-time-for-a-fuck, ogled a Hobbit?”
“No one can be blamed that…that whoever created Hobbits chose to make this one particularly comely. Nor will I be blamed for thinking he’s comely, thank you very much.”
Dwalin leaned against the wall, wrapped his arms around his stomach, and howled with laughter. Thorin glared at him, unsure how exactly this situation was funny.
“Let’s just got get the boys, have dinner at the inn, and go to bed, shall we?” Thorin asked, pulling Dwalin away from the wall. “Maker above, they’re going to think you’re already drunk, Dwalin.”
“Did you get the Hobbit’s name at least?” Thorin glared at him. Dwalin huffed. “Thorin, that is just sad. Well, I’m not going to complain. We’re doing this sale thing a lot more often. And I’m suggesting it to the lads as well.”
Thorin let him ramble. Maybe the Hobbit would be at the inn tonight having a drink. Maybe Thorin would finally learn his name.
#
The Hobbit had not been at the inn. Nor did Thorin see him again a few days since. But a week after Thorin met the Hobbit, he returned with some old cooking pans. His parents’, it seemed, and also in bad condition from overuse.
“Is it possible to fix them? Or…”
Thorin examined a pot. There was a bad crack in it and the Hobbit admitted it’d not been used since he dropped it yesterday. Others had loose handles and each was scratched quite badly.
“Some of these can be fixed,” Thorin assured him, “But not all of them. I can make new pots and pans that look exactly like the originals you have here. They’ll be stronger too, more durable. Would that suit you, Master…”
“Baggins,” The Hobbit said, “Bilbo Baggins. And yes! Please! It’d be sad to get rid of them, but I…should stop rambling.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being sentimental,” Thorin assured him. He couldn’t say it was a bad trait as he himself was often sentimental. “Have you spares to use while I work on these?” Bilbo nodded. “They’ll be ready within a week.”
“Wonderful!” Bilbo said. “Is there a rush fee? Do you take half payment up front? Forgive me, but I rarely commission a smith. I usually buy something they’ve already made…”
Other then the fee that would allow him to buy enough ore to shape into the pans, Thorin waved him off. He told Dwalin to switch with him now, beaming.
He at last had a name to put to the Hobbit’s face.
#
Spring slowly turned into summer.
Once a week, Bilbo came to the market always the same day and the same time. Thorin would step outside to sell his and Dwalin’s wares though his main purpose was to catch a glimpse of Bilbo as he shopped.
Sometimes, Bilbo would come to him and buy something.
Other times, he simply passed the forge by and, if Thorin managed to catch Bilbo’s gaze for a fleeting moment, he’d smile and wave—a simple greeting or farewell, depending when Thorin caught Bilbo’s eyes.
Once Bilbo left the market, Thorin would wait for the line of customers to die down before he urged Dwalin to take over until dinner. Dwalin usually agreed.
“Hobbits court with flowers,” Kili told him one night. “I spotted a boy making a bouquet of them for a girl he fancied, and all the children make jewelry out of flowers. Crowns and necklaces are easier, I think, because flowers are fragile. I could make you some jeweled flowers for him. Maybe a small daisy pin would be good—”
“I’ve got it, Kili,” Thorin said, ruffling his nephew’s hair despite the protests Kili gave. Fili just rolled his eyes and exchanged looks with Dwalin. Kili pushed Thorin’s hand away and scowled at him as he tried to fix his hair. Thorin didn’t understand why he bothered. Kili didn’t wear any braids.
Still, his mind turned with ideas. Flowers…there was no way he’d be able to get away with managing to give Bilbo something so fragile, but perhaps he could merge their traditions in a way? Do something that would be meaningful for Bilbo and also in light of Dwarven tradition.
Thorin barely slept.
#
He would not let doubt seep into his mind, knowing if he did, he’d take the cowardly route and simply leave without Bilbo being any wiser. He worked on the gift after the market closed around dinner time. Dwalin would watch him silently, but he’d smile and occasionally pat Thorin’s shoulder.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he’d remind him. “I’ll send the boys down to get you when it’s time to eat.”
Thorin would respond with a nod and then return to work, shaping the stem and the leaves with near painstaking concentration.
At last, it was ready and then the doubts rampaged.
What if Bilbo didn’t like it?
What if he wasn’t interested in Thorin romantically?
What if?
What if?
Thorin held his head in his hands and tried not to groan. He was unsuccessful, but it was quiet enough he doubted anyone heard him. When he lifted his head, Dwalin was looking at him funny and he knew he had been heard.
“Felling all right?”
“Just a little nervous,” Thorin admitted.
“You’ll be fine,” Dwalin said. Thorin didn’t feel reassured. “He’s coming. Go!”
“But—”
“Thorin, I will kick your ass! Go!” Dwalin pushed him out of the forge.
Bilbo looked up from the display of new cutlery. He was dressed in various shades of purple, which seemed to bring out his eyes. The perpetual lump that always formed in Thorin’s throat returned.
“Good morning,” he said.
“M-morning,” Thorin greeted. “How may I help you today, Mr. Baggins?”
“I’m just browsing today,” he said. He pointed at the knives. “Did you make these?”
“Aye,” Thorin said.
“I like the handles.”
“It’s just leather,” Thorin said gruffly. Bilbo chuckled, scratching the back of his head. He looked at the table again and Thorin mentally kicked himself. “I mean, thank you. Not all offer their appreciation for my craft.”
Bilbo smiled again and Thorin swallowed. “You’re very welcome,” Bilbo said. “Will you be in the Shire much longer?”
“We rented the forge for the season and will return to Ered Luin after September,” Thorin admitted, holding the rose behind his back. His heart slammed against his sternum, blood rushing through his ears. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Bilbo said. He tilted his head slightly to the right and Thorin’s gulped. “My birthday’s in September, so it’s good to know I can send you and your kin an invitation, Mr. Thorin.”
Thorin nodded. “We’d be honored.” Well, the boys would be more ecstatic that honored, but still. “Master Baggins, I…”
Bilbo blinked and Thorin swallowed again. Why do words have to be so bloody hard? He asked himself. He sighed, deciding to forgo the trouble of turning his thoughts into words and revealed the rose. Bilbo stared at it.
“Is that a rose?” he asked.
Thorin nodded, unable to will his tongue to form a word.
Bilbo smiled. “It’s beautiful.”
“It…it’s a gift, if…if you’d have it,” he said. Bilbo blinked again and looked at the rose. Thorin watched a blush bloom over Bilbo’s cheeks, nose and to the tips of his pointed ears.
“You’re sure?”
Thorin nodded. “I made it for you…and I’m going to shut up right now before I lose whatever dignity I have left—not that telling you how I feel is undignified—I’m just…” Thorin set the rose down and ground his teeth, cursing his luck.
“Mr. Thorin?” He looked at Bilbo. The rose was in his hand and he was smiling. “I was actually coming every week trying to gather enough courage to ask if you would you have dinner with me sometime. That is if you don’t object! What am I saying?”
“I would love to have dinner with you,” Thorin said.
“He’s free tonight!” Dwalin called from the back. Bilbo laughed behind his hand as Thorin glared back at Dwalin.
“Would eight be a good time for you then?” Bilbo asked.
“It would,” Thorin said, “Tonight then?”
“Tonight…and thank you for the rose,” Bilbo waved the metal rose in the air. “I hope there’ll be more?”
Thorin grinned, “Enough for a bouquet.”
“Good,” Bilbo said. He kissed Thorin’s cheek. “I’ll see you tonight then, Mr. Thorin.” Bilbo walked away and Thorin watched, smiling, before returning to the forge.
He had eleven more roses to forge.
~The End~