The Blueses was a quiet coffee shop, just across the street from Bilbo's new apartment. Despite the rain, a warm light from their front windows splashed out onto the street, bathing the sullen grey sidewalk with a golden shimmer. Hanging from the door, just under the OPEN sign that Bilbo could read only from memory, was a large sheet of white paper, a line of thick black letters scrawling out…something. The young man squinted, tilted his head one way, then another, and eventually just pressed his nose against the glass of his bedroom window. Just before the pale fog from his breath obscured even the rain from view, Bilbo made out the words on the sign: HELP WANTED.

Stepping back, he fidgeted with the frayed seams of his robe. The idea of working at the shop was inticing, not only for its closeness, but also merely for the sake of having a regular income. Bilbo worked as a freelance writer, and although he loved to scribble as much as the next man, there wasn't always enough money to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach. Turning, he took in the sight of his mostly empty apartment, the stacks of unpacked boxes muttering quietly about him in the darkness. He sighed a single, long, drawn-out note, before sliding his robe off his shoulders and tossing it wantonly onto a plastic folding chair. If he was going to do this, he may as well do it right away—no point letting someone else snag the job before he could make up his mind.

Fishing a coat out of a box and his umbrella out of another, Bilbo made his way down a darkened stairwell to the lobby of his building, where the middle-aged security guard nodded to him in passing.

"You've picked a terrible evening for a stroll, Mr. Baggins," the man said, thumbing a long pipe. "Shall I call a taxi for you?"

"No, that's alright," Bilbo replied, subtly scanning his uniform for a name tag and finding none. "Just popping over to the shop across the street for a coffee. Fancy anything?"

The security guard shook his head and waved him off, a motion that served as both a farewell and a no thank you. Not entirely sure what else to say to the man, or how to ask him for his name, Bilbo shuffled quietly across the hardwood to the front door, where the wind immediately bit at his face as he pushed it open. The rain was heavy, and sneaked around his umbrella as if on a personal vendetta, but Bilbo made it across the street without incident. As he reached for the handle he found himself pausing, his fingers inches from the warmth and dryness his body craved. He was worried, as he had every right to be. What if he screwed this up? Said the wrong thing? How would be face down the people here if he ran into them at the grocery store or the library?

Before his nerves could send him back to his apartment, a figure appeared behind the glass. They were little more than a tall, dark shadow, an outline from within the room that hid all detail from Bilbo except a general shape. Perhaps the young man should have been startled by the sudden appearance of a person in the doorway, but all he could think to do was step aside as the figure pushed open the door, greeting him with a small smile as if they were old friends.

"You seem to be having a lovely time out here," the man said, "but surely I can entice you inside for something to drink?"

Bilbo nodded, and followed the man into the shop. The smell of coffee beans curled under his nose, like a cat around his legs, but it served well as a calming agent, and in moments Bilbo felt both comfortable and confident. Looking around, he took in the sight of bookshelves lining the back walls, the spines of most of the volumes bent and creased from many years of attention, and the tables filling most of the remaining space, the stained wood a rainbow of colours from cherry red to off-white. The serving counter, that doubled as a display case for baked goods, stood to the right of the room, stretching all the way from the window to the little door at the back corner that led to an adjoining room.

Realizing suddenly that he had stopped walking, and that a few of the other patrons had turned to look at him, Bilbo hurried to the counter where the man he had followed was now standing opposite. He glanced at a plate of muffins, which looked awfully fresh, but before he could get a word out the man spoke again.

"So, when exactly are you available to start?"

Bilbo's mouth, partially open in preperation to speak, shut audibly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Working," the man pressed. "After all, that is why you're here, isn't it?"

Feeling a little foolish, as if having no interest in a place except in hopes of working there was reason to judge a man poorly, Bilbo dropped his gaze and watched his umbrella as it created puddles on the floor. "I, uh, yes, working would be nice." He raised his head and licked his lips. "Soon, I suppose. Tomorrow?"

The man leaned forward. "You ask me that as if it is a question."

Bilbo furrowed his brow. "Tomorrow," he said, with more confidence. "I can start tomorrow."

The man nodded and stroked his long, grey beard, a look of deep thought passing over his face. "Have you ever worked in a coffee shop before?"

"I haven't, no. I'm a writer—been at it for years."

"Books?" the man asked.

"Journals, mostly," Bilbo replied. "Do you read The Silver Lining? I write almost all their short story pieces." He liked the way that sounded, he realized, and stopped himself from noting that "all" really only counted for about six stories. "Or maybe The Journey?"

Before the man could reply, the front door to the shop opened again. Two young men stepped inside, but despite one sporting black hair and the other blond, there was no denying their relation. "Gandalf," the darker-haired one said, coming up to the counter and sliding a brown paper package across the polished wood. "I picked up your mail for you. It's a bit damp—wouldn't fit in the mailbox, so the postman just left it in front of your door."

Gandalf nodded like this was old news, then made a sweeping gesture that presented Bilbo liked a prized tomato at a farmers' market. "Kili, Fili, may I introduce the newest member of our company, Mr. Bilbo Baggins. He'll be working the weekly afternoon shift starting tomorrow."

"Welcome aboard," the brothers said in unison, clapping Bilbo on the back in turn. "You'll live to regret this decision."

Bilbo was too confused to really respond other than to frown and wrinkle his nose. Were they playing a trick on him? He turned to Gandalf, but was met with an offered hand, which he shock on nothing but principle.

"Thank you," he managed, somehow sensing it was better not to ask why he had been hired, how the old man had known his name, or why exactly this was a decision he would come to regret. "What time should I come in?"

"One should be fine," Gandalf replied, a twinkle glinting in his eye. "And I think you will find working here quite…agreeable."

Fili laughed. "Yeah, and the perks are just to die for."

Their words sounded ominous, intentionally or not, but Bilbo couldn't summon the willpower to question them. That was the magic of this place, he supposed, it just made you…accept things.

Once the silence had grown a touch awkward, Bilbo left the shop with a small wave and braved the downpour outside to make it back to his apartment. When he reached his door he couldn't remember how he had gotten there, if he had taken the elevator or the stairs, or even if the security guard had asked him about his lack of coffee. Water dribbled from the ends of his hair into his eyes, and rain was making his jacket heavy against his back. Time seemed to falter for a second, and Bilbo sensed something shift in the world around him, but then the feeling was gone and he was left shivering with his house key only halfway into the lock.

Once inside his small apartment, he dropped his jacket and umbrella unceremoniously onto the floor and stalked to his folding chair, the plan in his head simply to grab his robe and turn in early.

As it turned out, that was impossible; for his plastic chair was gone, and so was his robe.

In their places was a red velvet armchair and a fur throw, both worth several times the items they had replaced. And, there, balanced perfectly on the end of one of the armrests, was a steaming cup of coffee, one side of the Styrofoam cup flaunting two blue eagles.

Bilbo picked up the cup, stunned into silence, and took a sip.

It was even his favourite flavour.