Getting drunk is never a good idea. Especially around elves and dwarfs (not to mention when you're madly infatuated with the leader of said dwarfs). And getting drunk for the first time? Utter stupidity. So, being a sensible and altogether rather respectable hobbit, Bilbo had no idea how he had managed to land himself in his current predicament.
Bilbo Baggins considered himself a rather well-seasoned drinker. His cellar was home to many barrels of Hobbiton's best wine and he would gladly take a glass of Old Winyards with his dinner when the occasion called for it. And, although he would never admit it in proper company, he remembered the words to many-a-Hobbit drinking song quite well. Well enough to sing them backwards. In his sleep.
Perhaps it was his Took-ish side, or perhaps it is simply the nature of all young Hobbits, but Bilbo first encountered beer at a relatively young age- just as he had entered his irresponsible tween years. And, rather unfortunately, he hadn't handled it particularly well.
He could remember sneaking off with his then dearest friends and riding down to the nearest pub in the dead of night (well, an hour or so after supper). They had made many futile attempts to purchase beer, (and subsequently been forcefully removed from the premises) before finally coaxing the rather hesitant young barmaid outside, where they attempted to make her assist them in their adventure.
It had taken a great deal of persuading (and a fair few silver coins) but, after the best part of ten minutes in the pouring rain, they had managed to convince her. She had smuggled them a few full sized pints of ale, the good kind from Bree (which Bilbo later became to know as 'Barliman's Best), and urged them to leave, before the owner caught them- again.
And so they had clambered giddily back atop their ponies, careful not to spill their drinks, and had begun riding back to Hobbiton as fast as they could.
They had still been high with the adrenaline and thrill at the notion of drinking and so had, rather foolishly, decided to do so around the back of the first unoccupied Hobbit-hole they came across. Rather coincidentally (but altogether unfortunately) it had been the home of Bilbo's cousins, the newly-wed Sackville-Baggins, who were off busy holidaying somewhere over the hill and across the water.
And thus, for Bilbo, the initial triumph of obtaining the ale was short-lived; he had barely taken a sip of the drink when he had discovered that it most definitely did not sit well with him.
Much to his embarrassment (and his companions' amused fascination), he was forced, in a rather undignified fashion, to empty the contents of his stomach all over young Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' prize winning daffodils.
Needless to say, his first experience with alcohol had put him off the stuff for a great deal of time. Never-the-less, after another decade of his irresponsible tweens, and many more of marriages, holidays and birthday celebrations, drinking soon began to grow on him.
However, Bilbo never quite recovered from the horror of his first drinking experience, and was rather proud to say that he had never been properly drunk.
It had been weeks, maybe months, since Bilbo had left the comforts of Bag End behind and set off with Thorin and Company. Despite the rainy weather and long days, it hadn't been half as bad as he had expected it to be.
Still, weeks of sleeping on the cold, hard forest floor, which was constantly crawling with hoards of vicious insects, had begun to take their toll on him. He found he was in a perpetual state of uncleanliness, dampness and (perhaps worst of all) tiredness. And, as fond as he had grown of Bombur's cooking, there was never quite enough to go around, and, more often than not, came in the form of soup.
Bilbo quite liked soup- turnip soup, cheddar soup, onion soup or even mushroom soup- and, before the adventure, would have had it twice or maybe even thrice a week. But, after drinking soup day in day out for the past month or so, he doubted he would ever willingly consume it again.
And thus, upon their arrival at Rivendell, Bilbo had been positively ecstatic to be faced with the prospect of clean clothes, a warm bed, a decent bath and some fresh food. He had all but jumped with excitement when Lord Elrond had invited the Company to dine with him.
His companions, however, seemed less than pleased, and he had he cared to listen, he was sure he would have heard countless disgruntled mutterings from the dwarves. Undeterred, he sat straight down and began to load his plate with various salads and breads.
"Try it; just a mouthful!" Dori was trying to convince his rather petulant-looking brother to eat something off one of the many plates, all of them piled high with salad.
"I don't like green food!" Ori huffed, practically pouting, "Have they got any chips?" This was met with a large cheer from the rest of the company.
"Hey! Look at least they've got some decent ale!" Fíli exclaimed, raising the delicate glass (that looked altogether far too small in his hand) and downing the liquid inside. He waited for a second or two, then his eyes widened comically and he spewed out the definitely-not-ale all over Kíli.
"What in Durin's beard is that?" He let out an aghast whisper, his eyes watering, "That is foul!"
Gandalf chuckled, "That, Master Fíli, is the finest wine in Rivendell,"
"Wine?" Dwalin snorted derisively, "Where's the damn beer?"
As if on cue, an elven maid appeared with her arms full pints of ale, and a faintly disgusted look on her face, as she attempted to both balance the ale and keep it as far from her face as possible. The dwarves let out a unanimous roar of joy, all but jumping on the poor elf, who almost fell over with the fright.
"Bilbo?" Balin turned to face him, three mugs of ale in his wrinkled hands, nudging another in his direction.
"Oh no, it's fine, I'm fine. I don't drink much, in fact, you know how it is, I've never been drunk before…" Bilbo's sheepish refusal was cut off by a resonating crash from the other end of the table.
"What? Master Boggins, tell me you aren't serious?" Kíli yelped, sounding almost offended.
"You're a fully grown hobbit! Even Ori has gotten completely smashed once or twice!" added Nori.
"Oi! What's that supposed to… oh, bugger off, alright I see your point." Ori huffed, the tips of his ears turning bright red.
"But, never- not even once? Don't hobbits drink? You had plenty of ale in your cellar…" Dwalin leaned forward, his eyes shining with thinly veiled glee.
"I suppose I just never really saw the appeal, and I've been tipsy once or twice and I can conclude that I'd be quite a terrible drunk," Bilbo muttered, not really quite sure how to react to the attention. The last (and only other) time the entire company had been focused on him had been the fateful night back in Bag End.
Fíli and Kíli shot each other mischievous looks, before leaping out of their seats, hoisting Bilbo in the air and carrying him (much to the surrounding elves' amusement) to their places, dropping him in front of their amassed six mugs of ale.
"Drink," Fili ordered.
"And don't stop until you're pissed off your head." Glóin roared, raising his own mug with a cheer.
Bilbo was still in a faint stage of shock. He thought it was very safe to say that he had no pre-disposed intentions of getting drunk- in fact it had been one the last things on his mind.
Then again, from what he could tell, drinking was an important part of Dwarvish culture and could possibly help to integrate him within the company. Not to mention that he was exceedingly nervous of offending the dwarves (and, for that matter, their elven hosts) by refusing the ale.
"To hell with it!" Bilbo cried softly under his breath. He was on an adventure, one with no certain return at the end, and, in the unfortunate event that he was incarcerated, lacerated or whatnot, he would very much like to have as few regrets as possible, and possibly a dwarf or two at his funeral.
"To the Company!" he cheered, throwing up his mug of ale before downing it in one enormous gulp.
Four mugs of ale later, Bilbo was notably drunker than the rest of the company.
Unfortunately, hobbits are not built for the excessive consumption of ale, and instead favour pipeweed and the occasional glass of wine. Their speedy metabolic systems, although notoriously fast at digesting food, are rather lacking in the ale section. In fact, they are infamous (at least in Bree) for their exceedingly low alcohol tolerance.
Dwarves, however, being made of earth and dwelling in the ground, are by nature a far sturdier people; able to drink a good many more ales than almost any other race on Middle Earth and remain twice as sober. Excluding, perhaps, elves and their notoriously potent wine (though no dwarf, or dwarrow alike, on the face of Middle Earth would be willing to admit it.)
The result of this rather handy evolutionary trait was that none of the Dwarfs in the Company were any more than slightly tipsy. And Bilbo was most decidedly extremely drunk, and seemed to hold no intention of sobering up.
Lord Elrond, their host, was sitting with Gandalf at a table overlooking the Company and had been observing their merriment with well-veiled curiosity and more than a hint of amusement.
And it wasn't until the Halfling ambushed one of his elven manservants, clambering on his back and announcing, rather loudly, that he was naming his 'trusty steed' Myrtle Junior and that they would 'embark on a quest to retrieve the stolen pocket-handkerchiefs from a great fire lizard' together, that Elrond finally decided to take action.
"Master Hobbit," he began, pulling himself from his seat and gliding to stand by the intoxicated Hobbit, a stern look on his face but barely concealed laughter in his eyes, "I rather believe that Ilindar would be far more comfortable if you would kindly remove yourself from his back."
The uncomfortable and rather embarrassed elf sent a grateful look in his direction, before wincing sharply as the excited hobbit tugged on his hair, forcing him to veer around sharply.
Bilbo sniffed indignantly, "I know not of this 'Colander' of whom you speak, Lord Elrond. I do apologise, but I am afraid that Myrtle Junior and I have a quest we urgently need to embark upon. A great man," Bilbo hiccoughed, the tips of his ears turning pink, "A great elf such as yourself, must surely understand the importance of a good pocket-handkerchief?"
At this, the company, who were watching with rabid fascination, let out a series of cheers and whoops, along with a few hollered 'Bilbo!'s of which the origin was unsure (but most likely Kíli or Fíli).
"As much as I do, ah, enjoy indulging with a pocket-handkerchief, Master Baggins, I am that sure you can embark on your quest without Myrtle's help?" Elrond laid a commanding hand on Bilbo's shoulder, a smile slipping onto his face in spite of his genuine concern for his manservant.
Bilbo's face turned dark and he let out a resounding cry, "You shall not stand in our way!Unhand me you fiend! I have the mighty sword Sting," at this he reached into his scabbard and pulled out an oversized and rather battered looking leek, brandishing it in front of him like a weapon, "And my steed, Myrtle is stronger than ten Oliphants! "
At this, Bilbo held up his fingers presumably to emphasise the number, muttering, "Ten!" repeatedly under his breath with an increasing amount of vigour.
Rather unfortunately, he unfurled his fingers a tad too quickly and, in his excitable state, the leek slipped right out of his fingers.
Even more unfortunately, it landed straight onto the face of the rather pitiful-looking Ilindar who had been burdened with the task of supporting an intoxicated Halfling on his back.
"Master Hobbit," Elrond ventured, a cautious smile in his voice, holding his hands up in mock defeat, "I would highly advise that you, ahem, dismount from Ilindar, lest you find yourself in a rather unfortunate situation. This is simply for your own good."
Now, Thorin Oakenshield had spent the majority of the dinner with the elves overseeing the affairs with an agreeable amount of disgust and aloofness. Or at least, that's what he told himself. He really was not sulking in the corner, just brooding at the edge of the scene. And watching the events that transpired with a healthy amount of interest and a great deal of amusement, and a little disdain, but, nonetheless, little intervention.
It may have been true that he had sneaked some Elvish wine into his ale mug, if only to prove to himself that Dwarves were made from far sturdier stuff than tree-lovers.
And it may also have been true that he had astonishingly underestimated the wine's potency and had found himself rather intoxicated. Not at all a state fit for a King to be seen in, especially surrounded by his suspiciously hospitable enemies.
So he remained quiet, the sober side of his brain ensuring that he restrained from making too much of a fool of himself, adopting a rather majestic composition, watching in the corner with a kingly expression.
Of course, all of that flew out of the metaphorical window when Elrond (he refused to call that tree-loving, pointy-eared daisy-eater a 'Lord') challenged his Burglarhobbit.
That leaf-biting, root-munching, barkbreathed tree humper had marched up to his Bilbo, ripped him away from some Elven twig-up-his arse ponce of a manservant and proceeded to berate him until his hobbit, his hobbit, had been reduced to tears.
Or something along those lines. Thorin hadn't been paying full attention, well at least not until he heard his hobbit's distressed sniffles. That was he had really taken notice of the commotion taking place in front of him.
So, naturally, he had stormed into the throng, throwing his mug to the floor with a resounding crash and barreling past the chorus of caterwauling elves, who would not stop 'playing' their 'music', and placed himself in front of Master Baggins, glaring into Elrond's soulless eyes.
As he moved, an unnatural hush fell over the Company; even the elvish musicians (he used the term loosely, for he was sure their music could be more aptly described as the dying cries of an injured goblin) stopped their playing (or rather, sawing).
Thorin could feel his face hardening, reverting to its common state of stony aggression, which was customary for times of opposition. His rather obvious disadvantage to Elrond (wherein he was a mere half his height) was quite overshadowed by the fearsome look spreading across his face.
"You, Elrond, have no right to talk to my hobbit like that," Thorin thundered, his eyes cold and harsh, boring into Elrond's, "Nobody is allowed to talk to Bilbo in that manner, especially after all he has given up in order to join a quest that has nothing to do with him and done it not for the treasure but out of the goodness of his own heart!" At his final words, he jabbed his finger (rather sharply) into Lord Elrond's chest.
Looking back, Thorin could admit that he had possibly overreacted the slightest bit. Possibly, but it was rather unlikely. Especially considering that Bilbo had completely stopped crying and was beaming ear to ear, cheeks still wet, looking at him as if he were one the Valar themselves. No, actually, he reconsidered, he definitely hadn't overreacted.
Balin had known Thorin a great many years, indeed since he was just a wee lad. And, as many times as he had seen Thorin drink, whether it had been in merriment or in pain, as many times as he had seen his King get inebriated, he had never seen him lose his regal composure quite as completely as he did when he was looking at Bilbo Baggins.
Thorin may have been stubborn as the mountains and twice as tough, but he cared about his image. His life hadn't been easy; they had begged for work as lowly toymakers, smiths and miners, but Thorin had never lost face. He had remained stoic in the face of aggression, a leader when one was most needed.
And more than any, he knew never to let his guard down. As a young lad, he had a few incidents with crooked men, some of which had cost him dearly, both at the time and throughout his life. There were times when Balin wondered if Thorin truly knew how to let loose, to enjoy himself or even relax. So to see him so open in the home of his worst enemy was a sight truly stunning, and not all that displeasing. Even if said enemies did happen to be elves.
So he hadn't been particularly inclined to restrain Thorin from 'protecting' their burglar, even at the risk of aggravating their elven hosts. After all, Bilbo and Thorin were rather adorable together and, even if neither of them would admit it, even to themselves, Balin had never seen any two people look at each in that same way before.
It was only when Bilbo got up and, quite seriously, threw his arms around the King Under the Mountain and squeezed for dear life, that Balin began to question whether he should have let it get to that stage. All in all, Balin figured that, if the fancy took him, Thorin would most likely attempt to 'exile' the Company if they ever mentioned his current predicament, or even for possibly letting him 'embarrass himself' in front of their enemies. And, short of taking an axe to their skulls, that was worst he could realistically do. So he may as well let the situation play itself out.
Balin resigned himself to watch with curiosity as the (obviously drunk) Thorin began to hug Bilbo back, leaning down to push his hair out of his eyes and whisper something in his pointed ear, only drawing his attention away to remind Kíli and Fíli that they should most definitely not be standing on the dinner tables.
Bilbo felt all warm and squishy inside, although that could have just been Thorin's arms slowing crushing his ribs. He wasn't all that sure. But it was a good squishy feeling so, assuming it was Thorin's fault, he felt that he should probably thank him. So he did, putting on his very best whisper voice, and just making it determinedly 'quieter' when it, for some reason, seemed to resonate around the courtyard.
"Thanks for being nice Thorin, you should do it more often, it makes me feel all squishy," he whispered, ignoring the guffaws and sounds of shock he could hear at his words, assuming they must have been strange elven birds or whatnot.
For some reason, Thorin didn't seem to take the compliment very well (silly dwarf) and his eyebrows drew up as his lips descended into a pout, "What do you mean be nice more often? I'm always nice to you, I'm nicer to you than I am to anyone else!"
"No way! You're always telling me that I'm doing everything wrong and the rest of the time you ignore me!" Bilbo scoffed, throwing his arms around in the air, gesticulating wildly.
"That's only because I am strangely intrigued by your ways and I know that my Nephews, indeed the whole company, would take great amusement in my affection for you!" Thorin huffed, glaring at Bilbo, "It's your own damn fault if you were less appealing then this wouldn't be a problem at all!"
Somewhere to his left (or right, he never had been good with directions) Bilbo heard a frenzy of hushed whispered, and a few exclamations of shock, but he ignored them in favour of the new revelation that Thorin, grumpy Dwarf king Thorin, thought he was appealing.
Suddenly the blissful smile fell from Bilbo's face, immediately replaced with a peeved frown, "Ex-cuse me! You can't exactly talk! I can barely look at you without blushing, you great big oaf! It's not fair that you actually look amazing when you're stropping in a corner, and when you're happy! Do you have any idea how inconsiderate that is?"
"Look at who's saying this! You look like an angel even after weeks of sleeping on the ground at ungodly hours of the morning and you're just so perfect!" Thorin thundered, the silver beads in his hair tinkling as he shook his head in frustration.
Suddenly, Bilbo became very aware of the fact that they hadn't actually stepped out of their embrace and that Thorin's arms were still very much wrapped around his waist. He couldn't help but notice that Thorin's grey eyes got really bright when he was passionate about something and that his pink lips were pushed in the most adorable little pout.
Before he even had time to process his thoughts, Bilbo had reached up and tilted Thorin's face down, pressing his soft lips against Thorin's own, cutting off mid-sentence.
A second passed, then another in total silence and Thorin's shocked eyes drifted closed and his lips began to move against Bilbo's. The hobbit sighed softly, melting into his embrace, the only thought registering in his intoxicated mind that the new sensation was most definitely very nice and that he hoped it would last for a very long time.
"That was... unexpected," Bofur gasped, torn between laughing and trying to figure out what in Durin's name had just happened, his eyes still firmly fixed on the rather enthusiastically embracing couple in the middle of the courtyard, "Definitely a development to watch out for, anyone for s'more ale?" His words were met by a hearty (if still slightly confused) roar of approval.
Bilbo had come to the conclusion that thirty armed oliphants must have trampled over his skull as he slept. His skull was throbbing, he had a horrific headache and there was an alarming gap in his memory of the last night.
He had, at first, attempted to disentangle his limbs from the pile of bedding in which they were entrapped, but, when his body screamed in protest, he took it as a sign that it was not advisable for him to be making any sudden movements (or indeed any at all) for a great deal of time. Rather unfortunately for him, his stomach was soon gnawing at his insides and he resigned himself to dragging his aching body from the bed in an attempt to find himself some breakfast.
After a great deal of squinting at the daylight, and after he had attempted (and failed) to gracefully extract himself from the bedding without planting his face into the ground, Bilbo finally made it out of his room, his vision shaking precariously and a dizzying sensation filling his head.
It took him a great deal of time to navigate the twisting halls of Rivendell (and his shying away from any sunlight or noise was most likely a rather consequential hindrance to this), but after around half an hour, and a few frustrated declarations that he would 'rather just sleep', he finally found his way to the courtyard of rowdy dwarves.
Bilbo was so relieved to have finally found some semblance of civilisation that, for a good few seconds, he failed to realise the rather uncomfortable silence which had overpowered the air as he collapsed next to Kili.
"You feeling well, Master Baggins?" Dwalin asked, with an oddly mirthful smile and a resolute refusal to meet Bilbo's eyes.
"I... uh, sorry, what... what exactly happened last night?" Bilbo flinched a little at the sudden sound, his polished manners disappearing to his pounding headache and ravenously empty stomach.
Bofur's face physically lit up in front of his eyes, and Bilbo was overcome by a foreboding feeling of imminent embarrassment as he opened his mouth, reaching from behind his back to pull out a sadly drooping leek, "This look familiar to you laddie?"
AN- Finally done! I've been working on this oneshot since May, would you believe it! Hopefully more coming soon, and a review or favourite always makes my day :)