Disclaimer: I own nothing.

VISITING HOUR BLUES

CHAPTER 1

Bilbo knew it was going to be a highly-unusual day when the door to Violet Nights swung open and Elrond swept in. Bilbo froze, what exactly was someone who regularly featured in the press's society pages doing in his café? Oh, he knew all about Elrond – the highly-successful family restaurant, the expensive prices, the ambiance, and the delicacy of the food. Belladonna often talked about how wonderful it was, she liked to go there for coffee and people-watching.

Of course that didn't explain why Elrond was in the middle of Violet Nights, looking around with thorough interest.

Bilbo wiped his hands on the teatowel slung over his shoulder and tried to stand up a little straighter. Elrond was tall and handsome in a way that was almost otherworldly; it was an unbelievable sort of beauty, and Elrond wore it well, not like he expected everyone to immediately start admiring him. Not like some who swept into Bilbo's café.

As it was, Elrond was the one who broke the silence, his gaze finally drifting over to Bilbo. "Your mother has remarkably good taste."

Bilbo choked on thin air for a moment, his mind whirling. "You know my…of course you know my mother."

Because why not? Belladonna Baggins was always determined to know everything about the many things that interested her. She often scribbled notes in the margins of newspaper and magazine articles, particularly those featuring Elrond, his restaurant, his family. Why shouldn't she decide to strike up a highly-unlikely friendship with the man himself? Bilbo could feel a headache approaching.

He arranged his features into a smile as Elrond took a seat at a table. His hair really did reach his waist, with a tiny gold-threaded braid pulled back at either temple. He looked astonishingly stately, even amongst the worn edges of the café.

His gaze was fixed on the menu blackboard. Bilbo could only scratch fingers through his hair and wait. A smile ghosted across Elrond's face and suddenly he didn't seem so untouchable.

"She has claimed that nothing on Rivendell's dessert menu ever comes close to matching the quality of what emerges from your kitchen." He lifted his chin just so, his gaze fixing steadily on Bilbo's face. "So I would like a piece of apple cake, with vanilla ice cream."

Bilbo was pretty sure that he was gaping like a fish; his mother had actually told one of the city's most-praised restaurateurs that her son's café desserts were better than anything his highly-regarded restaurant served? Oh God…

He was about to say no, really, ignore my mother, but the words died when he saw the look on Elrond's face – unbridled interest and challenge. He wasn't sneering, but he was not going to move until this matter was settled. Stubborn, no wonder he got on well with Belladonna.

Bilbo cleared his throat. "There's a good tea that goes with it too, if you'd like…?"

"Thank you."

Relieved and confused, Bilbo retreated to the kitchen, grabbing his phone to text Thorin a hasty my mother told Elrond that my desserts are better than his. He's here for a taste test. FML. Thankfully, the cake was warm and moist after a short reheating spell in the oven and the ice cream scooped beautifully. It looked good in a blue and white patterned china bowl. Bilbo let the tea steep and stared at the shifting tealeaves, at the completely unconcerned rising steam. A buzz in his pocket got his attention.

Nothing in Rivendell tastes as good as your baking.

Bilbo wanted to snort, to laugh, because he'd tasted the amazing homemade breads served in little baskets at Rivendell. Everything tasted wonderful there, falling apart in your mouth and running with vibrant flavours. Violet Nights didn't come close. But Thorin, who was working on not holding back all the thoughts that he determinedly caged up in his head, believed otherwise. And that warmed Bilbo all the way through.

Aware that he was probably smiling rather stupidly, and that Elrond could probably see him, Bilbo poured a cup of particularly fragrant fruit tea and loaded up a tray with Elrond's order. Rivendell's proprietor was leafing through a volume of e e cummings and only set it aside once Bilbo began unloading his wares. Elrond really did have the most penetrating gaze, Bilbo was positive that Elrond was the sort of food scholar who could list a dish's ingredients after only a few mouthfuls. No pressure then, oh no, none at all.

Bilbo tried not to stare. He busied himself with rearranging the shelves that Brinar had had fun with recently. Somehow he had managed to spell out the filthiest sentences using only the books' spines and his wild and inventive imagination. So far, no sound of Elrond spitting anything out in disgust. Bilbo kept his back pointedly turned, how did Elrond cope with visitors filling his restaurant every night, judging whether or not his food met the ridiculously-high standards that the newspapers raved about?

"Mr Baggins."

A summons. Bilbo stiffened and felt his pocket buzz with an incoming message but he turned to face Elrond, two novels in hand and a smile twisting. He and his mother were going to have a very long talk after this.

Half of the cake was gone and Elrond's hands were folded together. His expression was as serene and unreadable it always seemed in photographs, a pond without a ripple.

"Your mother is not a liar."

His tone was measured but there was a hint of warmth and even a smile that caused Bilbo's own smile to gladly untwist. Elrond liked his baking. His mother would probably insist that he should have such a valuable review printed up on flyers. In that moment, Bilbo felt like agreeing with her.

Elrond drank a sip more tea before speaking again. "I would offer you work in my kitchen, but I have been reliably informed that your work here is of the utmost importance to you."

His mother had gotten that right. Bilbo's gaze briefly swept his café – the comfortable furniture, the blackboard that Falco insisted on redecorating every time he visited, the crowded book shelves that were browsed by students, mothers, and late night clubbers, the rainbow sticker that was still prominent in the window. There were days when he was exhausted and frustrated and wished that he'd never listened to his mother, of course there were. But those days were outweighed by how often someone complimented his baking, how happy families looked as they came in for a rest mid-shopping, how relieved people were when Bilbo welcomed them without judgement, no matter how they were dressed or who they held hands with.

Besides, the idea of working in Elrond's kitchen was terrifying. Bilbo had seen pictures of it – it was enormous and everyone who worked there appeared to possess the same supernatural calm and blank expression as Elrond. Maybe it would be a very soothing place to work – almost certainly it was the calmest kitchen in existence – but Bilbo realised, with a fond and amused shake of his head, that he was used to the unruly chaos that Fal and Brinar and any number of Durins regularly brought to his life. To attempt to work without that now was unthinkable.

Elrond nodded slowly and spooned up more cake. His smile only increased as he ate and Bilbo smiled back. He wondered how many people actually got to see Elrond smile. In all the photos Bilbo had seen, Elrond had kept a very tight leash on his expression, there was never a hint of a smile. But there was clearly a lot that Elrond kept especially secret from the always-greedy press, like the fact that he had become unlikely friends with Bilbo's forthright mother, that he'd actually listened to her when she'd boasted about her son's baking prowess, that he'd been willing to be proved wrong. Yet, he'd come to the café and had shared all of that with Bilbo. What a privilege.

"I must thank you," Elrond spoke up, casual and yet also deliberate in that casualness. "My sons have visited Violet Nights several times; I'm told you always treat them kindly."

Bilbo blinked, Elrond's sons had visited? He was sure he would have remembered them; they were striking when caught by photographers' lens – dark-haired twins with the sort of bone structure that sent Fal into overlong raptures. Maybe they'd come in with one of the after-clubs crowds? Sometimes he didn't get a chance to personally greet everyone who spilled in. Vaguely, he could recall grey eyes and thank yous, but that could have been anyone. Still, he seemed to have made a good impression and a reply to that was simple enough.

"Everyone's welcome."

Elrond scraped the last of the cake out of the bowl and seemed lost in thought. Bilbo wondered suddenly how often Elrond's sons could truly relax, their father was well-known, there'd been that kidnapping scare only last year, and the family was rarely out of the papers. Perhaps being anonymous in a crowd had been part of why they'd liked Violet Nights. Bilbo smiled.

And Elrond got to his feet, his movements seeming to flow like water. Bilbo was envious – he tended to bump into people and have his feet trodden on, something he was sure never happened to Elrond. The man was tall too, though he didn't give the appearance of looking down on anyone. His gaze was level and thorough as it swept Bilbo from head to toe.

"The next time you visit Rivendell, perhaps you could bring a different dessert."

Bilbo's eyebrows jumped high. Bring food to a restaurant? That seemed like something out of Monty Python. "Ah…won't your chef…?"

"A chef is only as good as his last meal." There was that smile again. For all his stateliness and careful blankness, there was also something warm and almost playful about Elrond, if he allowed you to see that side of him. "And my sons have told me how much they like your fruit rolls."

And maybe that was a preference they'd inherited from their father. Elrond clearly wasn't going to come out and say it, but Bilbo's smile was a grin now.

"I was thinking of trying out a few new flavours, Rivendell sounds like the perfect place to get an honest opinion."

Elrond's expression broadened and he inclined his head, before his gaze lingeringly swept the room, as though memorising it.

"Rivendell likes to partner with other local businesses. Something else for us to discuss during your next visit."

Bilbo could only bubble over with gratitude as Elrond left just as suddenly as he'd arrived. Rivendell, working with Violet Nights? That would mean promotion work for each other, advertising for Rivendell in the café and vice versa. And maybe something more, maybe providing a taster menu for each other's business, as a way of demonstrating their wares and getting their names out to a different kind of clientèle. It was a huge step into something that Bilbo had never expected. It was amazing and overwhelming…and he had his mother to thank.

Oh God, she was never going to let him forget that. Bilbo groaned and stuck a hand in his pocket to retrieve the still-buzzing phone. It was Thorin, asking for more details, and listing his own opinions of Rivendell – the courses were too minimal and there was never a decent beer on tap. Bilbo grinned, a Durin dinner at Rivendell sounded like a comedy sketch, or like the sort of disaster that included smashed crockery and police involvement.

He tapped out a reply to Thorin – everything's fine, weird, but fine. I'll tell you over supper. Also my mother is getting worse.

He definitely wasn't going to call her for a few deserved to suffer, a lot, and realising that she was one of the last to hear such juicy gossip about her own son would kill her. Bilbo smirked, just a little; sometimes, he was very much his mother's son.