Chapter Text
He remembers his father as if it were yesterday, sitting on the bench with Bag End behind him, much like Bilbo had done just this very morning, blowing the neatest, most beautiful smoke rings – perhaps it's simply Bilbo's mind magnifying any and all memories he has of Bungo, making them seem much grander than they really were, but he's quite certain that his own smoke rings have never quite lived up to his father's. It's a strange thing, almost a tradition as far as he's concerned – a Baggins in front of his home, creating a perfect likeness of its round door out of pipe-smoke, time and time again, watching it flutter away and disappear. It is relaxing, and gratifying in its own way, it really is, and he's sure his father would agree.
Which is why disgruntled doesn't even begin to describe his sullen state of mind when first he witnesses a dwarf attempting the same. And not just any dwarf, no, this is Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of the rowdy, unsanitary, rude bunch that have invaded poor Bilbo's home out of the blue, and much like him, his smoke rings are large, and, and pompous, and in everybody's face, damn him, who even smokes that much inside?
...And beautiful, Bilbo hates to admit. Absolutely exquisitely crafted – the smoke rings, not the dwarf, no, not that Bilbo has been paying much mind to that. Whoever he is, and whatever quest they're going on that Bilbo will most certainly not be accompanying them on, one thing can be said for sure – he knows his smoke rings.
Bilbo watches quite transfixed as they ascend to the ceiling, large and strong and solid, almost as if weaved out of silver rather than smoke, and turn there lazily, not particularly keen on dissipating any time soon it seems. The dwarf King's face is like masterfully cut stone, all sharp edges and striking features, and so Bilbo cannot vouch for his observations all that well, but it seems to him that he is rather enjoying himself and his strangely carved pipe.
Bilbo gets lost in that image and his own thoughts for far too long, which is why he startles with a gasp when one of the other dwarves bumps into him as they all make their way to gather in front of the fireplace. The King glances at him, eyes an astonishing and unsettling blue, and Bilbo resorts to a very rude tactic himself, and simply hurries away like a spooked rabbit, flees the odd company and makes to hide in his bedroom.
Even before he reaches it, the dwarves begin singing, a low hum that makes Bilbo's very heart beat faster and his chest swell, and he all but collapses on his bed, an exhausted, befuddled, exasperated pile a hobbit can only be reduced to after feeding excessive numbers of people with little to no time to grab a bite himself. But he listens still – he doesn't think there is a room remote enough in Bag End to hide from that enchanting melody. He does not quite catch all the words, but it is there, a longing and an ache that are completely foreign to him, and yet manage to find their way into his heart, if only for one moment.
And if he dreams that night of mountains never seen, and roads never traveled, and treasures immeasurable, then surely the lack of food and overabundance of inappropriate dwarves is to blame, and besides, no one ever needs to know – he is a Baggins, and Bagginses do not run out of their door to pursue some momentary whims, no matter how taunting.