An Unexpected Heist - TechnicolourGrey.
Inspired by a gif set on Tumblr, made originally by Radagasts. (radagasts .tumblr post/39513478341)
In a bungalow in London, there lived a man. Not a grotty bungalow, full of ooze and crack addicts, nor a stylish contemporary bungalow, with barely an architecturally-inspired stool to sit on, nor an old person's bungalow which smelt vaguely of cat fur and stale biscuit. This was a bachelor's bungalow, and that meant comfort.
The rooms were small in the quaint little habitat, but nonetheless homely. The hallway was inhabited by a coat-stand which always held only one coat, and two pairs of loafers which lived together on the mopped-to-sparkling laminate floor. A copy of L. S. Lowry's Going to Work dominated the hallway wall leading into the living room; by far the homeliest room in the house, it had two fraying sofas with sewn-on patches to hide the scuffed cushions, a glass coffee table on a red rug bordered by tassels, a fuzzy television, a small radio, and a glass cabinet of worthless crockery.
The lounge led on to all other rooms like the heart of an ant hill – the clinically clean bathroom, the minimalist bedroom with its white sheets and copy of the latest bestseller on the oak bedside table, the cosy kitchen with its pantry and cupboards full to bursting with food and tins. The garden was well-kept, with a straight stone pathway leading from the squeaky gate to the front door; the door itself was unusual, wooden and painted green, curved in an arch at the top with a golden letterbox in the centre, but other than the little home was completely ordinary.
It was this little bungalow which housed Bilbo Baggins, a short man with a fair complexion and hair the colour of light straw. He was pleasant in his speech but quiet and generally shy in his demeanour. He worked alone in an office and lived alone in his home; it wasn't that he didn't like people, or guests, it was just that everyone in London had a very set agenda. Somewhere to be, someone to see. Home or work they just did not stop. And so Bilbo Baggins found himself grown up and alone in a house which he had only recently grown to like; the bungalow was built for his mother by his father, albeit with some of her funding, and when he inherited it he had always wanted to alter the décor but never really got round to it.
Like a well-oiled machine, the round, golden mantle clock in the living room was chiming ten o'clock when Bilbo rose out of bed on a midsummer's morning. It was no extraordinary morning: just like every other, the birds were chirping outside, the sun was throwing itself obnoxiously through the blinds in his bedroom, and the babbling noises of one man who was either staggering home from the night before or had started drinking ridiculously early passed by.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Bilbo emerged from his bedroom and padded, bare-footed, to the kitchen. "Good morning, Bilbo," he muttered to himself, absently turning on the radio before stumbling into the kitchen. His hair was still ruffled, sticking up at the back without surrender even when he smoothed it down with his hand, and he had pulled on a baggy once-white-turned-grey shirt and a pair of trousers which were too big for him.
Yawning widely, Bilbo clicked the kettle into a dull grumble as he picked out his favourite mug from the dishwasher and milk from the fridge. "Hard part over," he pondered to himself, padding towards the hallway. "Let's see what today's news brings."
The Daily Shire lay rolled up on the welcome mat awaiting him, as well as the rectangular brown envelopes which Bilbo was more inclined to ignore. He stretched his arms, experimentally arched his back and carefully picked them up before taking them back to the living room. On the middle pages he absently opened it, hoping to ignore all the doom and gloom of the front pages, and scanned the words dully. "A hedgehog running a blog?" he chortled softly, "my, what will they think of next?"
He left the paper on the sofa as the kettle shrilly whistled, pouring water and milk into his mug and feeling awake and refreshed enough to look down and realise that he had forgotten a teabag.
"It's going to be one of those days," Bilbo sighed.
Having retried and finally assembled a proper drink, Bilbo settled down with his cup of tea on his patchy sofa, reaching for a chocolate digestive from the nearby biscuit tin and bringing his feet up to rest on the coffee table. He wiggled his toes and dunked the biscuit carefully, sighing in contentment; today nothing would go wrong. It was a day of comfort and relaxation, warmth and immobility, where no unexpected things would happen.
Then, all of a sudden, and rather unexpectedly, there was a knock at the front door.
Bilbo's brow instantly furrowed. Who on Earth could it be? The postman? No, no, he had already been with the usual bills and flimsy Co-op catalogue. A special courier? No, he hadn't ordered anything online recently, Christmas was six months previous and no one remembered his birthday even if it was the right time of year to celebrate it. Someone who was looking for someone else and found the wrong flat? No, the knocks were too forceful, too calculated, three dull, resonating booms with a heartbeat in between each one. For a good few moments Bilbo sat still, wondering what to do. After all, his feet were already up, and he was already comfortable with his biscuit. Perhaps if he pretended he wasn't in they would go away. Probably just a Jehovah's Witness, or a pock-marked ragamuffin with a flyer for the newly opened takeaway down the road.
After a few moments of deafening silence he tried to settle down again. Still on edge, he shifted uncomfortably, seeming to sense that some presence was still looming just down the hall, on the other side of his front door. Looking down and seeing most of his digestive floating in bits on the top of his tea was the last straw. Careful to aim for a coaster, he haughtily slammed down his mug and padded to the front door with every intention to show the peace-breaker a piece of his mind.
Upon wrenching the door open, however, he found himself quite lost for words. He had expected some gangly youth, or a shoddily dressed middle-aged charity collector of some sort. The man who stood in front of him in the doorway was nothing of the kind: thin and lean, he was at least a half a foot taller than Bilbo, dressed in a sharp grey suit and tie. He was just as thin of face, cleanly shaved though his grey hair was flecked with white and cut short. His forehead and the corners of his eyes were wizened like the spine of a well-loved book, his line of a mouth pursed. His eyes, however, softened his entire demeanour – wise and bright, they seemed to betray hidden depths, secrets and understanding past Bilbo's comprehension.
For a few seconds, both men stood silent, observing one another. Bilbo could swear that he had seen this man – this stranger – before, but could not seem to place his face. He picked at his baggy and stained, feeling particularly underdressed, and stared up at the man expectantly. He waited for an introduction, but none came. The stranger continued to merely stare with strangely amused eyes.
Bilbo could feel the steady prickle of being far out of his comfort zone crawl up the back of his neck, and cleared his throat. His eyes wandered to the painting in the hallway, the Lowry which was so familiar to him, and, reassured, finally found the confidence to speak: "Good morning."
"Is it? I believe there were multiple crashes in the stock exchange, a collision on Denbigh Street and a two hour traffic jam on the M25."
Bilbo laughed shrilly. The stranger continued to stare. Bilbo noticed he didn't seem to blink. "Well the M25 was always the devil's work," he shrugged conversationally, hoping to appease the stranger. His smile dwindled when no response came from the man in grey. "Can I help you?" he asked, feeling himself lose patience.
The reply was slow and deliberate: "I am looking for someone to share in an adventure."
Bilbo blinked twice, waiting for the 'April fool's!'. However it was not April, and this man certainly did not look like a fool. "Well there are plenty of people in London, most of whom I'm sure would be pleased to take part in an" – he coughed – "adventure. But you shall not find one here." He began to close the front door. "Maybe if you try Bert, in the house two doors down on the left, I'm sure he'll be happy to oblige." The door was almost closed. "Good morning."
The door was nearly closed when the stranger spoke again, more sternly. "To think I would be good morninged by Belladonna Took's son, as if I were selling double glazing at the door!"
Bilbo opened the door a fraction and peered out. Puzzled brown eyes met piercing blue. "How did you..? Do you know me?"
"It seems growing up has addled your mind, young Bilbo."
"You know my na-?"
"Why yes I do, Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and you know mine, though you do not seem to remember I belong to it. I am Gandalf!"
"Gandalf… Gandalf! Good gracious!" He opened the door further. "Not the fellow who used to tell such excellent stories at parties? Not the gentleman who made particularly excellent fireworks!" A smile split his face. "I remember those! They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums and…" He trailed off, twirling his hand in the air as though to further emphasise his point. "Bless me, life used to be quite inter-…" He cleared his throat.
Gandalf filled the faltering silence. "Well, I'm glad you remember me for something, even if it is just my ostentatious displays of pyrotechnics on a Bonfire Night. All the same I am pleased you remember something about me, and so that is not without hope. Indeed for your old grandfather Took's sake, and for that of poor Belladonna, I think I will send you on this adventure." More to himself than to Bilbo, he added, "Very amusing for me, very good for you – and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it."
"Sorry, I… What? No, no! No, thank you, I don't want any adventures. Not today, not tomorrow." He pushed the door closed again, peering out through the smallest crack. "Perhaps you will try nearer the centre of town, or over in Knightsbridge, I'm sure they're very brave and interested in adventures there. I, uh… Good morning!" Bilbo hastily slammed the door and locked it, breathing heavily. He waited a little, to see if Gandalf would knock again, but none came. Instead, there was a noise from the other side of the door like a soft scratching. Brow furrowing, Bilbo knelt down and looked through the letterbox to see the back of a grey suit striding down the manicured driveway. The figure pocketed a flash of light.
Bilbo, breathing a sigh of relief, straightened up. My tea will be cold now, he thought glumly, before returning to the living room and deciding to get a cake or two to help him forget the whole unexpected business.
The unexpected business, however, did not forget him.
A few hours later, perhaps seven or eight, when the mantle clock was chiming six o'clock, Bilbo was pottering about the kitchen. The window was open as the summer evening was warm and crisp, accompanied by the scent of freshly-cut grass and the sound of an ice cream van meandering somewhere near. The sky resembled a watercolour of deep purple clouds, dabbed pink with cotton wool and smeared with thick strokes of red and orange around the horizon as the sun set.
Humming, Bilbo kept watch over numerous pans which were sizzling and hissing and spitting on the hob, cooking bacon and egg and sausage and all the pleasant parts of a good British fry-up. Toast which was slightly burnt on one side and white on the other sprang out of the toaster with a feeble bleep bleep bleep. Bilbo threw it onto a plate and piled it high with his cooked foodstuffs, sitting down at the kitchen table with a napkin and a matching silver knife and fork.
Bilbo smiled to himself, knowing nothing could go wrong. Nothing could possibly interrupt him. He lowered his knife and fork to take a first bite of food, when—
Boom boom boom. The heavy knocks at the front door reverberated around the little house.
"Who could..?" Bilbo pondered, setting down his cutlery. He stared wistfully at his food before rising, leaving his napkin on the table. Before he could even get to the hallway, however, the knocks rang through the bungalow again, more insistently – Boom boom boom!
"Hold on, hold on!" Bilbo called, bristling at the rudeness. "Well at least I know it's not Gandalf again," he muttered to himself, "he was much more patient." He unlocked the door, mouth open in readiness to form sharp words to shoo whoever presented themselves away. Despite this, he soon found his tongue stumbling over them, unable to formulate any utterance at all.
The person standing in the doorway was a man he had never seen before: not much taller than Bilbo himself but significantly older, he was bald and large of build, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. He sported a greying moustache and a thick duffle coat, and gazed at Bilbo with bright eyes.
"Dwalin, at yer service," the man said gruffly, when words continued to elude Bilbo. "Is this where it is then?"
"Where… where what is?" Bilbo sputtered, but the stranger was already pushing through the door, as though he had been expected all along. He hung up his jacket on the coat stand and straightened his t-shirt – Bilbo spotted numerous faded tattoos on his arms – before thumping through to the living room; without even taking off his shoes! Bilbo realised in horror.
"Dinner, lad! He said there'd be food."
"Well, it's in the kitchen, but no, wait, you can't come in here! I don't even know who you are!" Bilbo cried, hastily closing the door and following after the intruder. He adopted his sternest and most firm voice. "You must leave at once!"
Dwalin, however, was already making himself comfortable at the dinner table, sneering at the plate of food. "What's this? Breakfast? What time do you think this is, lad?" the allegedly-called Dwalin muttered, "where's the proper dinner?"
"It's kind of a, uh, second breakfast?" Bilbo answered meekly, "it's nice for dinner too."
"Hmph," Dwalin harrumphed, but speared a sausage and set to eating it anyway. "Don't have anything different, d'you lad?"
"Well I uh… No! No, I do not, not for any strangers! Now get out of my house before I-I… I call the police!"
Dwalin stared hard at him from the dinner table. "I'm sure you don't want any trouble, lad."
Bilbo paled. "Are you threatening me?"
"Not if you're getting something else for me t'eat. And a can of lager if you're kind enough."
"Well, yes yes, I…" Bilbo, who liked to think himself very hospitable and not of a disposition idiotic enough to anger a potential sociopath, quickly backed away towards the large fridge. "I suppose." He placed the can on a coaster on the table before the door sounded again – boom boom boom.
He looked at Dwalin.
Dwalin looked at him. "That'll be the door," he smirked.
"Yes, yes," Bilbo gushed. It might be some help, someone telling me they lost a mad uncle Dwalin and are coming to collect him, he hoped wildly as he quickly made his way to the front door. On opening it, however, he found that no help seemed to have come. In fact, things seemed to have gotten worse.
The man now at the door was very old-looking, with white wisps of hair poking out from under a bowler hat. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and grasping a large but tatty leather briefcase, with tufts of white beard sprouting like patches of grass from his chin. His smile, however, reached his eyes, and they twinkled kindly. "Balin," he grinned, tipping his hat, "at your service."
"Th-thank you," Bilbo babbled. He knew it was the wrong response, but he had panicked and was taken aback by the man's amiability.
Balin hung up his suit jacket on the coat stand and nodded wisely as he entered the hallway. "I see they've already begun to arrive then."
"S-sorry," Bilbo stammered, "they? Who's is they?"
"Do you have any beer, lad? I'm parched."
"Uh… yes, yes, of course." He numbly walked back into the kitchen with Balin in tow, where he found Dwalin in the doorway with the remains of one last piece of toast.
"Brother!" Dwalin exclaimed, his face breaking into a smile, "yer shorter and fatter from since when we last met."
"Not shorter," Balin chuckled, moving around Bilbo to embrace his brother. They hugged tightly, slapping one another on the back, before bashing heads so hard that Bilbo felt a little queasy.
Perhaps they're Glaswegian, he wondered, pouring a bottle of frothy beer into a glass and taking it to Balin – but the two brothers were not where he left them. He soon found them huddled in the pantry, looking over the breads and cakes and muttering to one another.
"Look, gentlemen," he started meekly, placing the beer on the nearest surface, "I must put my foot down now. I barely even know you other than your names and though I am quite happy to accept guests, gosh I even like guests, I do not like people in my house who I have only met half a minute before, so I must ask you to leave until we are better acquainted, I'm sorry."
The pair looked at him, both biting into a seedcake each. "Apology accepted," Balin smiled, before they both turned back and began discussing the collection of pies.
Bilbo opened his mouth to protest when, once again, came the now all too familiar boom boom boom. He breathed out a sigh of exasperation and stomped back out into the hallway, wrenching the door open.
Two men, one fair and one dark of hair, stood in the doorway. The dark-haired man was the taller of the two, but both were clean-shaven and young, in fashionable clothing and with the same deep eyes. The former stood with his back straight and head high, observing Bilbo with a small smile, while the latter smiled wolfishly.
"Fili," said the fair-haired man, with an incline of his head. "And Kili," grinned the latter. "You must be mister Swaggins!"
"I- What? No, no, you can't come in, you're at the wrong house, goodbye," Bilbo exclaimed as he tried to shut the door.
"What? Has it been cancelled?" Kili growled, jamming the door open with his foot.
"Nobody told us," Fili added, pushing the door further open.
"Canc- No nothing's been cancelled, I just-"
"Oh, that's a relief!" Kili's smile returned and he barged his way into the hallway, throwing his long coat onto Bilbo's arm. Fili briskly followed suit, kicking the door shut behind them.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" Bilbo flustered to himself as he hung up the two mens' coats, hearing sounds of greeting and embrace from the kitchen. "Look," he shouted sternly through the bungalow, "you all know each other but I don't know you, so could you- could you put all that food back, please?!"
The men had piled the kitchen table high with the food from his now-empty pantry, and were helping themselves to a buffet, scraping plates and bending forks and clinking glasses and slurping from mugs.
"Get some more chairs, Fili," Balin said as he helped himself to a warm steak and kidney pie, "won't be enough room for everyone else to sit down at this point, especially not Bombur."
"Sorry," Bilbo started, "but what's a Bombur? What are you all doing here? No, no, put those chairs back!"
"Kili, catch," Fili called as he threw seven wooden chairs at him from the bottom of the pantry, ignoring Bilbo. "And another one for Bombur since he won't fit on one," he added, tossing another chair.
Kili caught them all and unfolded them, positioning them in a tight circle around the table. Bilbo would have been protesting, but suddenly the door was being knocked on again, this time so violently Bilbo was afraid it would be smashed through.
"Oh, what will the neighbours think?!" he exclaimed desperately, running towards the front door and this time not being surprised that there were five men standing on the doorstep.
"Evening," said the tallest in a gruff rasp of a voice. He had a shock of ginger hair with a beard to match. "Gloin, at your service. And this is m'brother, Oin, but he doesn't hear too well." He clapped the stocky, grey-haired man beside him on the back before ushering himself and his brother over the threshold. This time Bilbo didn't waste the effort with trying to protest, but let them pass and haphazardly hang up their thick leather coats.
"And you are?" he asked with a defeated sigh to the remaining three.
"Nori," grinned the closest man, lean of face with a large nose and brown hair slicked back, "and this is Dori, and our youngest brother Ori." Dori was plump, grey of hair and jowly of face, while the youngest was tall and skinny, with his cardigan sleeves pulled up over his hands despite the humid heat of the darkening summer night.
Nori stepped into the hallway, looking moderately impressed. "It's bigger on the inside," he called back to his brothers. Joining Nori, Ori thanked Bilbo with a toothy but shy smile as he stepped over the threshold – Bilbo would have placed him at no older than his mid-teens – and Dori stopped altogether. "Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Baggins," he simpered, smiling and holding up a bottle of wine. "This is for you and your hospitality. Oh, a Lowry!" he added, clapping his hands together, "now I do like a man with appreciation for fine art."
"O-oh well…" Bilbo stuttered, taking it gratefully, "I uh… Thank you." At least the visitors were getting friendlier, that was something of a relief.
The door was just clicking shut, when from outside came a bellow of, "Oi, lad, that's no way to treat a guest!"
Bilbo closed his eyes, counted to three, and slowly reopened the door to greet what he hoped was the last of his guests.
By the time he looked back outside, the men walking down the pathway towards his front door were already there. "Bofur, pleased t'meet you." The man who had shouted grinned, shaking Bilbo's hand. He was about the same height as Bilbo, with a fur hat on his long, dark brown hair. A golden tooth glinted as he smiled. "And this here is my brother, Bifur," he added, jabbing his thumb towards the man beside him, who looked similar apart from his hair being untamed and black, with a bleached stripe of white.
"Oh well uh… Hello Bofur, Bifur," Bilbo began, trying to remember all the names of the men who had entered his house in the last hour.
Bofur leant forwards and lowered his voice. "Just do you know, he had an accident and doesn't speak too well. Or at all for that matter."
Bifur nodded and shrugged, moving over the doorstep behind his brother.
"Oh, and also, that waddling down the path now is Bombur," Bofur added, pointing out towards a large ginger man, "he doesn't speak much either. He prefers to eat." He clapped Bilbo on the shoulder and disappeared through to the living room, to loud shouts of merriment and glee.
Sure enough, Bombur wandered over the threshold, took off his coat and hung it up on the already over-crowded coat stand, gave Bilbo an "Awright!" before meandering into the house.
Bilbo breathed in heavily and leant against the hallway wall, slowly exhaling. "Please let that be the last," he whispered, closing his eyes and wishing that his twelve – or was it thirteen? Or eleven? – unexpected visitors would go and bother someone else for a little while.
"I can assure you that they are all, Bilbo Baggins," came a soft and amused voice. Bilbo opened his eyes to see Gandalf standing in the doorway, the sides of his mouth twitching. "Although one will be joining us later."
"You?!" Bilbo gasped, "you arranged this… assault on my house?"
"Now now, Bilbo, let's not get hot-headed," Gandalf chided, "do remember your manners. Isn't is customary to offer friends at the door a drink?"
"Well… yes, I suppose," he sighed, knowing defeat. "Come in, Gandalf, come in. Do you want tea?"
"A little red wine I think, if you have it," he acquiesced gratefully, removing the jacket of his suit and hanging it up on the coat stand. "And then, I shall explain all." Cursing as his head collided with the low-hanging ceiling light, he put his arm around Bilbo's shoulders and led him into the living room. Behind them, Bilbo heard the coat-stand capsize under the weight of the many articles, and closed his eyes in frustration.
"Oh dear," murmured Gandalf, and Bilbo, knowing events even more unexpected were about to happen, could not agree more.