AN: This is an AU idea that popped into my head as I was reading through the piles of Hobbit fanfic that exist out there. I am a Thorin/Bilbo fan; Tolkien, forgive me. In all my wanderings through the pairing, I have not come across a story even remotely like this, but if you had the idea first, please forgive me.

What if Bilbo actually was a Burglar? If he was truly skilled, he'd never have been caught or seen, and even Gandalf has no idea. Well, Bilbo's not going to out himself, that's for sure. The journey remains unchanged, alternate prequel and ending. He refrained from showing off on the road (if he was too good, they'd start asking questions). Here, then, is the story of the one Burglary that he did not get away with. (Although, it took 30 years to catch him)

Chapter 1

Twenty-two year-old Bilbo Baggins was a very bad Hobbit. His feet looked like normal Hobbit feet, but they were full of wanderlust. His hands looked like normal Hobbit hands, but they had very sticky fingers and not because he ate pie without utensils. He was an Adventurer, and he was a Burglar. Other hobbits his age were interested in eating enough to reach their full height, and just beginning to notice the opposite sex leading to awkward attempts at flirtation.

Not Bilbo Baggins. It was not that he needed the things he lifted, not at all! Usually, he returned them after only a little while. Some things he kept, but only if they would not be missed. Some things he returned to a person other than the previous owner, because he felt that it was fairer in that situation. He just liked the thrill of creeping and snatching, knowing that he could.

He grew tired of stealing from Hobbits very quickly. It was too easy, he thought. He ventured east to Bree and the villages within a day of the city, north and south on the Greenway for two days in each direction, around the lovely fishing communities of the lake to the north – Evendim, he had heard it called – and west, to the river Lune.

On the particular day of The Burglary (as he would later call it), he was dabbling his feet into a little pool by the river Lune and eating his lunch with a particularly interesting set of pewter utensils he had gotten from a merchant. They were wrought so they could fit against one another cleverly, interlocking into a seemingly solid piece unless you knew how to twist them in the exact way. He had followed the caravan from the edge of the Shire, and spent the last few days figuring out the puzzle, returning it at every meal time so the owner would not know.

Now he hummed over his success and enjoyed the fruits of his labor, and the fruits of his pie (brought from home and cooked by himself, thank you kindly!) The merchants had gotten stuck just after fording the river. One of their wagons had broken an axle pin (he did not have anything to do with that either… he had noticed it was worn, but he had not helped it along, not one whit, honest!) He had moved to a lovely hidden spot on top of a boulder a furlong away, not too sunny not too shady, and he planned to give the clever spoons back as soon as he was finished with his pie.

The merchants were cursing and ranting at each other as he sat up on his overlook and watched them. Further west down the road where the mountains reached up jaggedly along the horizon, a smudge of dust showed another party approaching. The merchants saw it too, and hoped they could trade for a new iron axle pin. Bilbo hoped it was Elves, because he had read many stories about them and listened to his mother talk about their grace and beauty, and how they travelled west sometimes. He took another contemplative bite of his pie and thought about all the Elvish words he knew. He was content this afternoon, belly full, thrill of stolen goods in his hands, late summer sun warming his face, far from home on an Adventure, and eager to see what new thing came down the road.

As the smudge approached, he guessed that it was a very small party, maybe even a lone traveler. He ate some more pie and sighed happily. The merchants hailed the approaching dust cloud and it slowed, and then stopped forty paces from them, allowing the dust to settle. Bilbo craned his neck forward to see the new arrival.

Well, it wasn't an Elf. It was not a Man either, or a Hobbit. It was three Dwarves with hammers over their shoulders. One was fair-haired, one was black-haired, and one had a blue beard but no hair on the top of his head. They were all sooty and dusty: smiths, Bilbo reckoned. The merchants were in luck. They argued with the Dwarves until they had agreed on a price for forging a new axle pin, and then the dwarves set up an anvil quick as quick (It had interlocks like the spoon set!) and made the piece right there in the middle of the road.

Bilbo watched, entranced as sparks flew and the three Dwarves worked together seamlessly. The black-haired one hammered, the fair one held the piece with tongs, and the blue-beard alternately stoked the fire and worked the bellows. They had obviously done this before, and the whole thing took less than half an hour. The merchants gathered up their things and made ready to leave as soon as the piece was done, and Bilbo slipped off his rock to return the spoons before they left.

"Here is your pin, sir," spoke a deep voice. Bilbo couldn't see which dwarf it was speaking. He was hiding behind a wagon and flipping through the packs to find the one he'd taken the spoons from.

"Many thanks, dwarf," sneered a Man's voice, and Bilbo heard the chink of a copper coin hitting the dusty road.

He peered around the tongue of the wagon, alarmed. That did not sound good at all. It had to have cost more than a copper.

He saw the black-haired dwarf with bunched up fists and grim set to his mouth, trying to restrain his fury. The fair-haired one stooped to pick up the coin, and the blue-beard set his hand upon the shoulder of the black-haired angry one, murmuring "Come on, leave it be."

The dwarves turned and bundled up their equipment even more quickly than they had brought it out. They turned away, heading east again. Before they reached the west bank of the Lune, one of the Men spat on the ground and made a sign of warding off evil. Angry dwarf clenched his hands even tighter and scowled mightily, making as if he meant to turn back and whip all those Men by himself. His companions each grabbed one of his arms and hurried to drag him through the wading ford.

Bilbo made up his mind. He shoved the spoons into the merchant's pack and took five gold pieces out of five different packs instead. He crept along the bank to ford higher up where he would not be seen, and ran as fast and silent as he could after the Dwarves. They set a fast pace, but Bilbo knew every twig and bramble of this roadside, and so he was able to keep up. They travelled toward Evendim, and only stopped when the sun set.

They set up camp, and Bilbo could see that the dark angry one was still fuming and sullen about how the Men had treated him. The blue-bearded one waited until they had eaten to gruffly say, "There were too many of them for us to take, Thorin, and you know it."

Thorin – for apparently that was the name of the dark-haired one – said nothing.

"We don't want a reputation as killers, you said that yourself not two days ago," comforted the fair one.

This was too much for Thorin. He burst out, "Reputation? Reputation! You saw our reputation. It would not get much worse, even if we were killers, Vali! Those Men, aye and all the others, ascribe us a false reputation anyway!" He stopped shouting, shook his shaggy head, and mumbled, "What does it matter?"

Vali – Bilbo was sure this was the name of the fair-haired one – traded a speaking look with the blue-beard. They took out their pipes, and seeing this, Thorin followed suit. They all sat, smoking in silence in the muggy night.

Bilbo waited until they were sleeping and the fire had died down to coals before he crept into the campsite. He put the gold he had stolen into the pack Vali had been carrying. As he turned to leave, something stopped him. He looked a long time at the face of the Dwarf called Thorin.

He had not seen a Dwarf this close ever before, and the rough, craggy lines of his face made him seem carved from stone. His brow was heavy and marked with lines from that ferocious scowl, now smoothed in slumber. His nose was by no means dainty or upturned like a Hobbit's nose. His hair was coarse and twisted where it was not plaited. The plaits were held in place by beads. Bilbo crouched down to see how they were put on. There was no way it had been slid on, and upon closer perusal, he determined that they were actually clasps with nearly invisible closures. He opened one to see how it worked. A grin spread across his face. He loved to see such clever things as this bead.

Thorin suddenly snorted and rolled over. Bilbo scrambled back, nearly singeing his foot hair. The Dwarf stayed asleep, fortunately, and Bilbo glanced at the others to see them still sleeping as well. He decided not to risk any more, and stepped silently away from the fire, sliding the clasp into his waistcoat pocket and setting off south under the stars, back to the Shire.

Dwarves were at least as interesting as Elves, he decided.

Chapter 2

Twenty-Eight Years Later…

"Very amusing for me, very good for you – and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it," the wizard said.

Dear me, thought Bilbo. That sounds ominous.

"Dwalin, at your service," said the first unexpected visitor, bowing low on the stoop of Bag End.

Bilbo cocked his head, trying to catch a fleeting memory, and when the recollection hit, it made him stammer as he replied, "Bilbo Baggins, at yours."

The blue beard was even longer, and the bald head was etched with tattoos that had not been there before. He carried two axes rather than the hammer and interlocking anvil-piece, but the muscles that had rippled as he pumped a bellows looked even more impressive this evening than they had so many years ago.

Bilbo stood with his hand upon the latch, dumbfounded, as Dwalin hung his green hood on a peg and helped himself to Bilbo's teacakes.

"Fíli and Kíli, at your service," they chorused, dropping piles of weapons into Bilbo's arms. He fumbled the armful and one began to slide out of its sheath; he quickly righted it and scolded the muddy-footed miscreant. Shaking his head, he dumped all the weapons onto the floor willy-nilly, trying not to wonder how Vali had not aged a day and changed his name.

"And this," the wizard pronounced, "Is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror."

Bilbo very carefully did not remember ever seeing anyone remotely like this Dwarf anywhere, and in fact, thought about all the Elvish words he knew, which was considerably more than an odd evening twenty-eight years ago that had absolutely no relevance whatsoever to anything dwarvish. None.

"…more like a grocer than a burglar," Thorin was remarking. Bilbo smirked to himself and decided to fulfil the snobbish expectation.

(If you don't like the turn the story takes after this point, you can read the AU that this story is an offshoot of: Burglar)

"…more like a grocer than a burglar," Thorin was remarking. Bilbo smirked to himself and decided to fulfil the snobbish expectation.

He said something witty yet lame about conkers and played completely naïve as Gandalf glowered and shouted that Bilbo was a Burglar if he said he was. He only kept the smirk off his face by supreme effort and practice. When the dwarves went to bed, he was waffling between amused and pensive. He'd never gone that far east, and he'd put a lot of work into being respectable in the past few years.

But deep down, he knew he would agree to go on this quest, if for no other reason than giving him a longer time frame to procrastinate returning the bead he had stolen so long ago. He knew returning the bead was the right thing to do, but he was hesitant, and not just because Thorin would be suspicious. He liked the little silver-cast clasp. He'd strung it on a leather thong and braided more colorfully dyed strips around to make a nice bracelet of it, and his wrist would feel awfully bare if he took it off. With these thoughts chasing each other around his head to the thrumming tune of that song, he laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

He woke up when the sun slanted across his face, unable to remember his dreams, but feeling that they had been unsettling, and that if it was up to him, he'd get up, have some breakfast, and then take a nap. He leisurely stretched and yawned, and then whipped his head around in a double take at his favorite cuckoo clock. Its hands stoically stayed pointed at the nine and the ten. He squinted and rubbed his eyes with his fists.

No, it was still really a quarter to eleven. "Drat!" he said, scrambling out of his covers and riffling through his wardrobe in search of clothes. And then, because he had said it last night and liked the sound of it he added, "Confusticate and bebother these Dwarves!"

"They are waiting for you, my dear Hobbit," unexpectedly Gandalf's voice rumbled from the hallway, "at the Green Dragon. I believe they left a note for you to meet them there at Eleven o'clock, and you should still be able to make it if you trot. Off you go now, don't worry about a thing. I shall be right behind you."

Bilbo glowered at the cheerful wizard, and slid a biscuit into his pocket next to his favorite set of lockpicks. He patted the stiletto blade that resided in a clever hem of his waistcoat, and ran his fingers over his wire snips before pulling his house keys from his pocket and thrusting them at the wizard. "Lock up, if you would please, Gandalf?"

Thanks for reading!