Bilbo Baggins was a completely normal man, thank you very much. He lived in a modest house left to him by his parents—who were also completely normal in case anyone wondered—owned his own garden nursery, Every Bloomin' Thing, and enjoyed to spend his free time in his kitchen or reading in his winged back chair. He lived a modest yet comfortable life and was completely content with it. So what if he, every so often, dreamt of some grand adventure? Of going off into the wilderness and facing off against dangerous foes? Flights of fancy was all that was. Delusions of grandeur, as his father used to say. No, Bilbo Baggins was completely comfortable with his way of life.
So on one fine morning, a Sunday in fact, meaning Bilbo had nowhere to be because the nursery was closed on Sundays—as everything should be—he found himself lounging on his porch swing smoking his grandfather's old pipe. Bilbo loved this pipe. Old Toby, his grandfather used to call it reverently. After his passing, Bilbo had kept it safely tucked away in a velvet and satin box buried deep within his closet. His father hadn't been a smoking man and would have thrown Old Toby away at first glance, and Bilbo knew he had to save it. He only smoked it once a week—so as not to create a nasty habit—on Sundays as a guilty pleasure.
A soft mewling noise caught Bilbo's attention. Opening his eyes, he looked up to find a very tall, very old, man with a full, scraggly beard standing before him holding his cat. The man wore an overly large, floppy hat that looked quite ragged and seemed to have been patched up in several places with other fabrics. He also held a crude walking stick in his other hand, making Bilbo even more curious as to how he hadn't heard his approach. "Oh!" Bilbo exclaimed with surprise. He hadn't even heard the of the second porch step, "Ah, good morning."
The man looked confused, "What do you mean?" He asked, tilting his head to the side, "do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"
"Well," that had stumped Bilbo. He furrowed his brows and thought for a moment, "All three, I suppose?"
The man grumbled under his breath but nodded all the same. He adjusted the cat in his arms slightly before stroking her on the head. "Um," Bilbo began, "have you found Myrtle, then?"
"I beg your pardon?" The man asked, his overgrown eyebrows shooting up into his hair line.
"Myrtle?" Bilbo repeated, "My cat? Did she get into your flowerbed or something? I do apologize, she tends to roam off when I'm not looking."
"What?" The man asked again, then put Myrtle down. "No, no, I found this one just at the end of your drive way."
"Oh," Bilbo said slowly, "Ah, then might I ask why you're here?"
"You are Bilbo Baggins, are you not?"
"I am."
The man nodded and grumbled under his breath once again. "Belladonna Took's son?"
"Again, that would be me."
Another nod, "Of course. I am Gandalf," he said. There was a brightness to his eyes, Bilbo had the vaguest of suspicions that he was being sized up by this stranger.
"Can I—can I help you?"
"I am looking for someone," he began and shifted his weight to lean more heavily on his walking stick, "to share in an adventure." He tilted his head, his expression half knowing and half something Bilbo couldn't quite place.
Pulling his pipe away from his teeth, Bilbo blinked several times, "Wha—an, an adventure?" He made a negative noise with the back of his throat, "No, no, I don't think you'll be finding anyone West of Newbury that would have much interest in adventures." He couldn't have spoken more plainly, and yet he felt compelled to keep speaking, to really illuminate to this stranger why adventures were such a bad thing.
Standing up, he shuffled his feet some and went to check his mailbox even though he knew it'd be empty—it was a Sunday, after all, "Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things," he closed the mailbox, "make you late for dinner." He laughed to himself, a dry and almost uncomfortable laugh. That was a phrase his father used to repeat. Anything that made one late for dinner was seen as a crime in his father's eyes. Bilbo expected the man to leave any moment now. His eyes kept flashing up from his feet to the man's face.
The man stared down at Bilbo for a strangely long amount of time before nodding slowly. Then with another nod, he turned right around, floated down the steps—the stair didn't squeak—and walked away from Bilbo and his house.
"How peculiar," Bilbo commented to himself. Looking down at Myrtle as she rubbed her body against his calves, he said "Well, at least that's all over now. Though, I do wonder what that was all about. Huh, Myrtle?" Myrtle gave the only proper response a cat could: she meowed.
Later that evening, hours after Bilbo had last given a thought to the strange man or his strange questions, he was curled up in his antique winged back chair which was situated in front of his fire place. He had his mother's home made quilt thrown over his legs and was in the middle of re-reading one of his favorite books. It was a quarter to six and the sun outside was just beginning to set and Bilbo could smell his homemade bread baking in the oven. It was nearly finished now and would go splendidly with his leftover rainbow roasted pepper soup.
Suddenly, Myrtle scampered past his chair, running deep into the house in search of a proper hiding space. Cocking an eyebrow, Bilbo wondered what had frightened his cat so when he heard the harsh, pounding knock on his front door. Wondering who that could possibly be, Bilbo bookmarked and put away his book to its proper place on the shelf and neatly folded his quilt on his chair before making his way to the front door. Couldn't have a guest finding his home looking untidy now could he?
Opening his door, still imagining who could be on the other side, Bilbo's brain came to an immediate stop when he set eyes on the brute that stood on the other side. The man turned around at the sound of the door opening. He was balding, though it looked like all the hair from his head had migrated to his jaw, had a large nose, and arms that bulged wider than Bilbo's head. He nodded at Bilbo and said, "Dwalin," as a greeting.
Not completely sure what to do, Bilbo jerked a nod back and said, "B—bilbo Baggins." The man said nothing, but gave him a cold stare as he walked past the threshold of Bilbo's home, "I'm sorry, do we, ah, do we know each other?" Surely they must. Why else would a stranger casually walk into his home?
But the man just gave him a look like he was some dolt, "No," he said, then continued further into the house. "Which way is supper, then?" His voice echoed through the halls.
Bilbo was about to shut the door and follow the stranger when something white caught his eye. Another man—this one much friendlier looking, with white puffy hair and matching beard—stood in his door way. Assuming he was here for the first man—perhaps Dwalin was mentally ill?—he stepped aside and allowed the man entrance. Giving Bilbo a kind smile, he nodded and said, "Balin."
It became obvious enough to Bilbo within the next three seconds that this Balin was not, in fact, there to collect Dwalin. Bilbo could hear the cheerful sound of a reunion of sorts and went to investigate. He found them in his kitchen closet, riffling away at his dried goods and other non-perishables, "Now, um, pardon me, but, you see—the thing is—I don't know either of you, so—I'm just going to have to come right out and say it," he raised his hands and motioned them forward, "I'm sorry."
That got their attention. The two men—brothers? Bilbo wondered, based on their names—stopped their hushed chatting to look at him. Then, in a completely innocent manner, Balin replied with, "Apology accepted," and continued riffling through Bilbo's things.
Bilbo, taken aback, didn't quite know what to say, but then heard the ring of his doorbell. With his jaw dropped open, Bilbo slowly walked back towards his door to see who else was calling at him at this hour. This time two male youths—maybe early twenties—stood before him. Giving out a small moan of trepidation, Bilbo looked at the floor for some strength.
"Fili," the blond one greeted with a small grin on his lips. He was slightly shorter than the dark haired one next to him, but looked much more put together and had a calmness in his eyes that the other one most certainly did not.
"And Kili," the dark haired one said immediately after the first. He said it so severely, like it was a death sentence and not a name, but then—almost in unison—the two bowed their heads and when they popped back up a large, monkey resembling smile, was on Kili's face. "You must be Mr. Boggins!"
"No! You can't come in!" Bilbo said shortly, not looking either boy in the eyes. "You've come to the wrong house," he tried to lie and shut the door.
"What? Kili said, stopping the closing of the door quite easily, "Has it been cancelled?"
"No one told us," Fili added suspiciously.
Bilbo was completely bewildered, "Cancel—no, nothing's been cancelled."
"Well that's a relief," Kili said with a smile. Fili nodded and the two muscled their way into Bilbo's home. Unlike the rest before them, Fili and Kili didn't immediately venture further into the house. Instead they tore off their coats, threw them to the ground, and Fili handed Bilbo two armful of sheathed fighting knives.
"Careful with these," Fili told him, a wicked gleam in his eyes, "I just had them sharpened."
Bilbo grunted under the weight, his eyes feeling larger than his tea saucers as he looked down at the weapons in his arms. "It's nice," Kili commented lightly, "this place. Did you decorate it all yourself?"
Never one to ignore a question, Bilbo tried to answer as coherently as he could, "Ah—no, it's been in the family for years, so—" then he noticed what Kili was using to scrap off his muddied boots and courtesies left him for a moment, "—that's my mother's sewing kit! Can you please not do that?" He finished lamely, his courtesies having returned quite quickly.
"Fili, Kili," Dwalin called, coming out from the kitchens to grab at Kili's arm, "come one, give us a hand. We've got to make room for the others."
"Others?" Bilbo cried, his voice slightly cracking as he followed Dwalin and Kili. He still had the knives in his arms as he asked, "How many more are there?" It was almost as if Bilbo summoned the devil himself, because as soon as the words left his lips, his doorbell rang again. "Oh, no," he groaned. "There's nobody home!" He shouted at the closed door, feeling fed up. He tossed the knives onto the floor—screw organization—and waddled over to it. "Go away," he said, "and bother somebody else!"
Bilbo swore, if this was some idea of a joke, it was in very poor taste. Pulling open the door, he had to quickly jump back or else get crushed by an avalanche of bodies. Several men began to pick themselves up, slowly, grumbling and swearing profanely as they did so. Looking up, Bilbo saw someone he never thought he'd see again. It was the old man. The same old man with the same hat and walking stick from earlier in the day. He stared back at Bilbo so innocently, not saying a word, and all Bilbo could think to say was, "Gandalf."
A/N: Started this for my friend Karrot! On tumblr she's Nuggles and she drew some amazng Hobbit fan art which you should all check out because it was the inspiration for this fic. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this and if you did please let me know by leaving a review!