Author's Note: This is just a cute, fluffy little piece that popped into my head and begged me to write it. I tried to channel my own memories of being young at adult dinner parties for the tone, and I've paid no attention to how old Frodo and Bilbo could/should/would be or timelines at all. All you need to know is that Frodo is young and living with Bilbo, post-Hobbit.
Credit goes to rockstop57 for the title, and a shout out to Jeemers as well for the too adorable phrase "wee lil' hobbit." Anything else you recognize belongs to the Tolkein estate/Warner Brothers.
Enjoy!
Little Frodo stared at the strangest hat he'd ever seen, wide blue eyes transfixed with curiosity on the sight. It was, without a doubt, the oddest piece of headwear he'd seen in his young life. Some of the female hobbits wore bonnets, of course, (Farmer Maggot's wife had an especially frightful bonnet with far too many frills for her face), and a hat was uncommon in the Shire. But this hat, this hat, was different.
It was large and fluffy, brown with angled flaps that stuck out like wings. And it sat atop the head of a dwarf.
Frodo had never seen a dwarf before, not until tonight, when, out of the blue, a whole band of them came knocking at Bag End! There were skinny dwarves, fat dwarves, dwarves with beards and braids and tattoos. All very exciting for a little hobbit of the Shire. Bilbo had introduced the group to his ward, but Frodo spent the roll call metaphorically hiding under his mother's skirts, or, in this case, hiding halfway behind an archway and peering out shyly around the older hobbit. Frodo really tried to listen to the names of the group, he did (Bilbo had told him it was polite to listen when elders were speaking, and Frodo wanted to be on his best behavior for guests), but there were so many and all so strange, he wasn't sure if he could remember a single one. He had a good memory of faces, though, so in his mind, they earned new names, like Fat Dwarf, Little Dwarf, Scary Dwarf, and so on.
As late afternoon drifted into twilight, chatter erupted all throughout the hobbit hole - some dwarves with loud, booming voices - and it seemed everywhere you looked there was another beard. Two of the visitors (Scary Dwarf and another Frodo had yet to name, one with a red beard) rolled a keg of ale inside the home, carried all the way from the Green Dragon for the impromptu reunion. A raid on the pantry was soon begun, initiated by Fat Dwarf, and Bilbo was busy in the kitchen frying steaks of ham in a skillet. Though Frodo certainly wouldn't know it, his uncle was much more obliging with the parting of his larder on this, the second invasion of his home by dwarves.
Frodo found himself swept up in the middle of all this chaos, as he scuttled from kitchen to dining room, setting the table as his uncle's request (Bilbo's mother's finest plates, of course). In due time, quite the spread of food appeared over the table, filling every inch of wooden surface with cheeses, breads, meats, and even a little selection of cakes and puddings, baked earlier that day (Frodo could have one of the sweets only if he finished the rest of his dinner first).
It was at this spontaneous feast that Frodo learned two very important things about dwarves: one, they've a fondness for vittles on par with that of hobbits; and two, they've much more atrocious table manners. Bilbo took their collective attack on dinner, crumbs flying this way and that, in good stride, making a few jesting reprimands and giving only one or two very serious scolding looks (which were ignored). He had a young hobbit to care for, after all, and all of the Baggins ancestors would roll in their graves if he let little Frodo pick up such nasty young hobbit in question, of course, found the whole spectacle delightful, giggling with boyish glee at every roll thrown across the room and every belch.
Bilbo just shook his head and reminded Frodo to drink his cider. Finally, the meal wound down to idle munching and pipes were pulled from pockets for an after-dinner smoke 'round the table. Frodo had eaten his piece of honey cake and drunk his cider, thank you very much, and was growing bored with all this adult chatter. Bilbo was caught up in some rendition of a story about barrels, which the dwarves found both hilarious and a perfect opportunity to grumble about past ills and which Frodo might have liked to hear, if his patience for sitting still hadn't long run out. And if that hat at the opposite side of the table hadn't been sitting there, taunting him with promises of mischief.
Convinced that no one was paying him much attention, Frodo slipped out of his chair, sliding onto the floor. He crawled behind and around the table, weaving past pushed-back chairs and ducking under furs and the occasional sword belt. At last, he reached his goal: the seat of Hat Dwarf. Heart pounding in his ears with excitement, and a little nervousness, Frodo reached up as quickly as he could to claim his prize. He snatched the hat right off Bofur's head and made for a quick retreat. But the dwarf noticed at once when his cherished hat left his head, and with a laugh, he caught the little escaping culprit and scooped him onto his lap.
"Well, then, what have we here?" he asked with a smirk.
Embarrassed at being so quickly found out, Frodo, eyes downcast, muttered, "Nothin'." An even more mortified Bilbo started to admonish Frodo, but Bofur just waved it away.
"Nothin'? Don't look like nothin'. In fact, to me," Bofur continued in a teasing tone, plopping the hat on Frodo's head. "Looks like a wee lil' hobbit up to trouble. What do ye say to that, lads?"
The sight of Frodo, eyes mostly covered by the hat, which was much too large for him, was met with a round of laughter from the table. One dwarf called out, "Looks like he's bored to mischief from Bilbo's yammerin' on."
"Oh, aye," Bofur stroked his mustache, in a pantomime of overly serious consideration. "We'll just have to liven the party up, then, now won't we? Would ya care fer a song, Frodo?" he asked the boy, who had finally gotten the courage to emerge from underneath the brim of the hat, still perched on his curls. Frodo just nodded in response, the too-big hat bobbing.
Bofur slipped his flute from his pocket. "I know just the thing fer a hobbit lad." He glanced over to Bilbo. "Remember that song you made up, one about the Man in the Moon?*"
Bilbo sighed, in half-hearted protest. "Just a bit of nonsense, really."
"Perfect, then!" Bofur crowed, then he blew a note from his flute, and Bilbo, with another sigh of resignation, started to sing.
There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
One night to drink his fill.
Soon, the other dwarves joined in the merry little tune, some singing, some making impromptu instruments out of the silverware. One blew into an empty earthenware jug; others stomped their boots on the floor. Frodo's blue eyes sparkled with delight, and he clapped his hands in time as another dwarf struck up a fiddle, in perfect accompaniment to the lyrics.
The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he runs his bow,
Now squeaking high, now purring low,
Now sawing in the middle.
The landlord keeps a little dog
that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there's good cheer among the guests,
He cocks an ear at all the jests
And laughs until he chokes.
And so the song went, Bilbo improvising lines as he sang, a big grin soon on his face, until the ditty reached its conclusion.
With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke!
the cow jumped over the Moon,
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Saturday dish went off at a run
with the silver Sunday spoon.
The round Moon rolled behind the hill
as the Sun raised up her head.
She hardly believed her fiery eyes;
For though it was day, to her surprise
they all went back to bed!
The party broke out into another volley of laughs and guffaws as the song ended, and little Frodo immediately protested. "Aw, but I want more!"
"Oh, but I think that's quite enough excitement for one day, Frodo," Bilbo said, a little out of breath. He took his nephew in his arms - Bofur reclaiming his hat - and gave him a peck on the forehead. "Just like the Man in the Moon has to go to bed, so do little hobbits."
And with that, Frodo was carried off and tucked into bed.
*Note: As you may already know, Frodo sings this song, lyrics invented by Bilbo, in The Fellowship. Apparently, there is also a deleted scene from the first Hobbit film where Bofur sings it in Rivendell. It seemed like too good a choice for my own story to pass up, and if you'd like to read the full lyrics, they're over on the LOTR wiki.