I don't own Tolkien's writings.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

He glanced up from his book, hearing the sound and knowing who made it. Across the cozy cottage, face nearly hidden by the copper kettle that sat proudly on the table, he could just make out the dark curls of his nephew's chubby little face. The boy was still eating long after Bilbo had completed his supper. It was not that the lad did not like what was placed in front of him. Frodo of course loved the warm bread slathered with butter, fluffy mashed potatoes, and perfectly cooked slice of lamb that was oozing with the juices he had marinated them in for nigh near six hours. He always said so, telling his uncle exactly what he thought of supper and thanking him for it with a warm grin.

But the boy was excitable. He would flap his arms when chewing happily at a piece of bread, giggling and humming while the warm pastry filled his mouth, just before washing it all down with a gulp of goat's milk that he had managed to sloppily bring to his mouth, his arms at that awkward length where most things were too far away from him. Frodo didn't often eat quietly. Not that he talked or was messy with his food. But he loved to hum and express his love of the meal through a little tune that he would make up on the spot.

It always warmed Bilbo's heart, seeing how much the child loved his food and how he expressed his thoughts through music rather than words.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

Frodo was at it again. Bouncing lightly in his seat and shaking his arms up and down while his cheeks were as full as a chipmunk's of mashed potatoes. The noise was that of his spoon, seemingly large in the lad's chubby hands, knocking on the wood of the table as he bounced. Bilbo smiled. Frodo saw him and tried to smile around his mouth full of food, waving the hand that did not hold the spoon to his uncle.

Bilbo waved in return, watching his nephew chew and flap and hum. He turned around and focused on the book in his lap once more, leaning back in the armchair and settling down for a quiet read with the quiet humming of Frodo a gentle background to his thoughts.

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

Bilbo felt his bones creak as he settled deeper into his chair and smiled.

Chik, chik, chik.

Now that was a different sound. When Bilbo turned in his chair to look once more, Frodo had moved on from the potatoes to the lamb, carefully sawing a piece of the meat off and shoving it into his mouth. Now he was bouncing to his little tune again, only this time it was the knife hitting the table, not the spoon. The sharp blade, though not overly sharp because Bilbo did not want the lad to hurt himself, gave out a higher pitched tone as the silver hit the wood.

"Don't do that, Frodo. You'll blunt it."

Even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, his mind filled with memories. His bones felt heavy again as the time which had passed became so suddenly apparent. The response flooded his mind in a voice he had not forgotten.

"You hear that, lads? He says we'll blunt the knives~"

The sounds of that night came back to him. The tinkering of his favorite plates as they were passed from hand to hand, the dull thumps as heavy boots stomped on his floor… It was so long ago, but it felt like yesterday, and the heaviness that came with those long past memories made him feel older than the years given him. He had seen so much in those days. That was the evening it had all started.

Frodo still watched Bilbo carefully, having heard the reprimanding tone in his uncle's voice and aware that he had been doing something wrong. But Bilbo did not give him the nod that said Frodo had listened and could go about eating. His uncle was now staring off at nothing, far away from any thoughts of Frodo and his music making.

Blunt the knives, bend the forks…

A smile came to Bilbo's face and his fingers tapped the book in his lap in time with the music he remembered. They had made a mess, hadn't they? At the time, he had feared for his dishes, but looking back on the old scene, it was amusing to watch himself frantically trying to save his plates and cups from their fate of being dashed on the floor. All the while, voices raised in song around him mocked his frantic tendencies. Those deep voices, quick to laugh and eager to smile…

Smash the bottles and burn the corks!

Bilbo stood up from his chair and walked across the candlelit room to stand beside Frodo. The boy was looking at him now, wondering if he was in trouble for his little dance. He could not know that he had lightened Bilbo's heart with a simple memory of old friends. They had not been friends at the time, Bilbo would admit to no one but himself, but they had soon grown on him. They became companions, and their deeds and character had come to mean so much to him, their voices had not left his heart. The adventures they had shared, the tears, the laughs, and the pain he had been through with them could not be traded for anything.

Tip the glasses and crack the plates~

Leaning down, Bilbo placed a gentle kiss on the top of Frodo's head, nestling his nose in the boy's hair for a moment. He wished nothing more than to see them all one last time. If he could have one wish, one miracle, it would be to see them all again. And the fact that he could not do that now, and perhaps never could…

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!

Just a little something I thought of during break and figured I'd write up.