Bilbo stepped up onto the stool positioned in front of his wardrobe. From the top of the cabinet he pulled down a large brown roll of butcher's paper, a bolt of cotton lining, and a basket.
From the next room a whistling kettle reminded him to put a clothes iron next to the fire, so he hopped down from his perch and laid out his materials on his worktable. He ambled into the kitchen, and peered into the cupboard beneath washbasin. In the very back, covered by a fine coating of dust was his mother Belladonna's iron. He propped it up, shiny flat face to the fire, and proceeded to pour himself a cup of tea.
The autumn was making itself known, this week. When Bilbo had woken up this morning just a glint of frost had been on the grass. It reminded him of the first time he'd approached Rivendell, and the sun peeking through the trees made everything shimmer in a way the Shire never seemed to. As he crossed the sitting room back to his office he paused, eyes falling on the wingchair in front of the hearth. A thick, deep night blue blanket lay folded over the back of the chair. Bilbo petted it, absently. The wool was slightly felted by long use, softer for all its hardship. He thought a moment- and brought it along with him to the other room.
At his worktable, Bilbo unrolled the roll of brown butcher's paper, and pattern pieces popped up from their long coiled sleep. He smoothed them out with his long hands, and organized them- center back, side front, center front, facing. Placing a smooth flat river stone in the corners of each piece, he examined the likely changes he'd need to make. He hadn't tailored from this pattern in nearly three years- before his quest with the dwarves, to be certain. Bilbo pulled a spool of twine and a pair of shears from the basket. He tied a length around his middle, and knotted it to mark the measurement of his belly. He folded the string in quarters, and used its length to discover he'd need to draw out at least three inches from his old measurements. With a piece of chalk he etched a graceful curve on the side seams of the front and back, and clipped away all the missed meals and poor appetites he'd endured during his journey- and moreover- since his return.
The iron was hot now, and Bilbo poured a splash of water into its spout. Steam began to spread out from the iron, warming Bilbo properly for the first time this morning. Back at the work table he laid out the blue blanket he had grabbed earlier, and he began to press it. He steamed away the creases and encouraged the grain of the fabric to bounce back to position. A proper waistcoat ought to be made on grain, after all. The simmering heat of the steam released the aroma trapped in the fibers of the cloth; it smelled of pipe and ponies, and its owner. Bilbo shuddered and cleared the catch in his throat. No, no- it's no good to go about one's tailoring with blurry bleary eyes, he thought.
He put away the iron safely, and snatched up his the stone weights on his first pattern piece. He laid out the back panel, ticked a mark at top and bottom of centerback, and traced out the stitchline in chalk. He flipped the pattern over, and carefully lined up his center line to trace the mirroring side. Just so. Bilbo repeated this for the side fronts, and center fronts, and then marked out the seam allowance in a dashed line. He always appreciated the order of this process before. It was like a meditation, lines surrounded by lines and corners pointing out the peaks of the organic body with a secret geometry. He took his shears in hand, and cut out the pieces of the garment. The blades neatly dueled against each other, a perfectly matched pair of combatants that always parried each other. They were not destroyers, however- like true duelists- true swords. They were cutting constructively.
Bilbo started with the pockets of the waistcoat while he was still working on the flat. It's much easier that way- before shoulders seams and side seams start to form the body encoded in the stitchline. Each pocket was deep enough for a hand, and certainly deep enough for a pouch of pipeweed, and now- his magic ring.
Bilbo stood, hands in pockets. He waited a little tremulously in front of the door he could not bring himself to knock. He did not have to wait long, for just then the room's occupant opened the door himself. Bilbo started and emitted a slight squeak.
"Burglar," Thorin said in reaction.
"Erm- I hope I'm not disturbing you. It is a colder night than it has been all month, and I was checking that you have all the bedding you need before I ask Beorn for another blanket." Bilbo shifted his feet.
"Certainly not. I have sufficient blankets, more than a dwarf needs." A hint of burly pride puffed his chest.
Bilbo giggled nervously, "Well of course, I imagined you must be all right. I was the one who was feeling the chill and I was just trying to be …er- thoughtful."
"Come in," the dwarf king commanded, his back already turned as he strode back into the room.
Bilbo cocked his head slightly in surprise. It was the last night they intended to stay with Beorn, now that the company, especially Thorin, had recovered from the warg attack- but the room was not packed up of Thorin's belongings as Bilbo would have expected. Bits of clothing were scattered about, and some torn paper drooped over a chair in the corner. Bilbo followed into the room, and noticed now that the clothing on the floor was only there because it was not currently being worn. Thorin stood in his tunic, unarmored for the first time since Bilbo had known him. In his hands he offered up a rolled blanket- a woolen night blue blanket. It matched his tunic, Bilbo noticed.
"th- Thank you, Thorin, " Bilbo stammered. He took the roll into his arms and chanced a smile at what he expected would be a stern face. But it was not.
"I have something else I meant to give you as well, bur- Bilbo." He held out a hand folded paper envelope. Bilbo tucked the roll under his arm and took this as well. "It's the least I can do," Thorin continued.
Bilbo slipped a finger through the parcel to open it, and into his hand dropped several beads. He looked up inquisitively at the taller dwarf's smiling face. "Beads. Dwarf made?"
"Yes, I noticed you had lost your buttons after the ordeal in the goblin's mountain. I haven't any buttons to replace them with, but I had to retire one of my tunics after the warg attack… it seemed you might like the beads off the ill-fated garment."
Bilbo was struck by the thoughtfulness of this gesture, and puzzled by its meaning.
Now that the pockets were set into the front of the vest, and the placket turned and button holed, Bilbo set himself to stitching the major seams. He ran the needle through the cloth, rapidly. Hobbits are very deftly fingered, and make natural crafters. He loaded the needle with several short quick stitches at a time, and passed from index to middle fingers hardly ever letting go.
Outside his window the sun was beginning to set, and Bilbo could no longer avoid lighting a lamp. He put down his work, almost complete but for some finishing of the hem. He struck a match and lit the wick. As he looked over his worktable he realized he would still have enough cloth left from his project to perhaps whip up a pillowcase before retiring to bed.
Bilbo took back up his sewing, and finished his last few inches of stitching. He picked up the iron again, pressing the hem into shape. He undid the buttons on the waistcoat he'd been wearing all day, stood up, and traded the old for the new. He fastened up the front as he crossed into the bedroom where the mirror stood in a dark corner. The fit was much closer than he had been wearing since his return. He looked trim, and even possibly- more stately in a color he had come to associate with kingliness.
He hadn't eaten all day. It was becoming a habit of his to decline invitations to dinner- though they were numerous. All he had wanted to do was keep in his sitting room, blanket on his knee, writing. Perhaps if he could take a bit of comfort with him… Maybe if he could know he was still enveloped in the protection he so missed- he could stand to get out of the hole again.