A/N: Loosely inspired by Roald Dahl's Esio Trot - I pictured Bilbo on the flowery balcony, then this happened. Hope you enjoy!

Love Thy Neighbour

I

Bilbo Baggins lived a very respectable life. Though he lived alone, he was not lonely, in fact he now rather enjoyed the bachelor's life he had once resigned himself to. Though he had means, he lived in a humble flat, in a humble building, not as plain as the great ugly concrete blocks of council estates, but nowhere near as wonderful as his childhood home in the country.

He did not mind London, but he did not love it either. Not as dearly as he loved Bag-End House and the rolling green hills that surrounded it. It was ever loud, ever busy and oftentimes cloying for a man raised in the tranquility of rural England. As such, the balcony to his small flat had been transformed into a veritable paradise, a small haven of a garden carved into dreary urban banality. His flowers gave him peace.

Bilbo Baggins considered himself an even tempered man. One did not incur his wrath easily. If one could cause such anger in him, it certainly did not endear them any.

Which explained his newfound seething dislike of a certain Mr Oakenshield, his new next door neighbour. Gripping his trowel so his knuckles turned white, he viciously attacked a weed that had sprung up in his rosebed as he fumed over his encounter earlier that day.

It had all began earlier that week when the building's landlord, Gandalf Grey, appeared at Bilbo's door, looming over the smaller man with that pleasant smile that usually meant trouble was afoot.

"Mr Bilbo Baggins!" he greeted, "Just the man I wish to see."

Bilbo smiled in return, withholding his comment about how there could be none other he wanted if he was knocking on the door of Flat 22.

"Mr Gandalf," he said politely, "Do come in."

The grey haired man ducked into Bilbo's flat (it never ceased to amaze him how Gandalf was so tall, he had to duck through normal doorways), with his usual admonishment for Bilbo's formality.

The younger man, however, was already pottering about in his kitchen, preparing a pot of tea.

"So is there some reason for your visit today?"

"Indeed. Bilbo my dear man, I need your help."

Bilbo warily eyed the man sat at his kitchen table. He was used to Gandalf's fortnightly social visits, however last time the man had asked for his help he had ended up soaked to the bone in the middle of Kelvingrove Park in Glasgow with no recollection of quite how he had got there or why he even was there.

He still wasn't entirely sure on that one.

Gandalf, seemingly catching Bilbo's look of trepidation, chortled to himself.

"No, no, nothing so adventurous as last time. Goodness we wouldn't want you to miss your dinner again, would we?"

"Or lunch," he grumbled, as he set the tea tray down on the table. Not as adventurous as last time didn't exclude all that much and could still make him horribly late for dinner.

"Or lunch. Perhaps your elevenses though," the landlord conceded. Bilbo gave a small chuckle, he wasn't all too bothered about his elevenses as long as he still got a cup of tea.

"You see," he continued, "I've finally found someone to move into Flat 23. Much the same as you, I knew his father and so when I heard he was moving to London, I offered him the use of the flat."

Bilbo smiled at that; when he had been moving to London in pursuit of convenience, he too had been contacted by his mother's friend who owned Arda Court and offered a flat with a very reasonable price on rent (he had accepted largely because the idea of flat hunting in the capital sounded hellish and really, he wasn't going to find anything better on his rather sad budget).

"What does this have to do with me?"

"I'd like you to help me when he moves on Saturday."

He nearly spat out his tea.

"Me?! What could I do that could be of any use? I'm hardly one for heavy lifting."

"True, but he will be your new neighbour, and anyway, the more the merrier."

Bilbo sighed, "Couldn't I just put on a lunch spread? He won't have any food and it'd be far more in keeping with… well me."

Gandalf beamed at him, "My dear Bilbo, that would be perfect."

When Saturday came, Bilbo, true to his word, disappeared off to the supermarket that morning to purchase all the fresh foods he would need. Gandalf had given no indication of number, but said that the man, a Mr Oakenshield, would be bringing a few friends to help him.

He shouldered through the door to the building, letting the door shut behind him.

"Ow!"

Bilbo whirled around, rushing out a 'sorry' and found himself talking to a chair. He pulled the door open to allow whoever it was through, apologising once again.

"You should watch it," snapped a deep voice. Bilbo felt a twinge of annoyance.

"I did say I was sorry."

A mere grunt was his only response. Bilbo began to wish that this was one of the friends and that his new neighbour would be somewhat more pleasant.

"Are you the one that's moving in?" he asked politely, tapping the button for the lift.

"Isn't that obvious?"

Grinding his teeth since he was also still talking to a chair, Bilbo noted that the man had a lot of hair. It looked most unkempt, practically down to his waist. He was also tall, taller than Bilbo, although that wasn't saying very much.

Once they were in the lift, the man thankfully put his chair down but stared steadfastly at the doors, ignoring the smaller man.

Bilbo bristled at that, but forced on a smile and proffered his hand,

"You must be Mr Oakenshield then. Bilbo Baggins, I'm from Flat 22, so I'll be your next door neighbour."

The man slowly turned to face him then and his condescending gaze flickered from Bilbo's face to his outstretched hand. It gave Bilbo the chance to begrudgingly admit to himself that what had been a rather attractive profile belonged to an even more handsome face. An unfairly handsome face. Especially since he did not deign to shake Bilbo's hand and instead drawled a response, dripping in sarcasm.

"Charmed."

By then the lift had arrived to the third floor, and the man, Mr Oakenshield, pushed past him and disappeared into his own flat, leaving a very annoyed Bilbo in his wake.

"Twat."

He unlocked the door to his own flat and entered inside, dumping his bags just past the threshold. He could hear the sounds of movement next door as various things were dragged across the floor or dumped and he found it a strange contrast to the stillness in his own home.

Sighing, he picked up the bags again, kicking the front door shut behind him and moving to drop them on the kitchen table.

Regardless of this Mr Oakenshield's unpleasantness, he had still offered to provide a lunch as a favour to Gandalf, so prepare a lunch he must.

It was only ten o'clock, so setting a reminder on his mobile for an hour and a half, he retreated to his balcony with one of his red leather bound writing books, scrawling out a scene he had been planning for a long time; a confrontation between his main character, Eärendil, and the fearsome Ancalagon Black.

Once he had completed a satisfactory draft of the pivotal scene, he relaxed back against the cast iron chair, tapping his pen upon the page.

Though it was a temperate day in late May, it was warm and sunny enough to draw out a lot of the neighbourhood children to the park hidden behind the opposing block of flats. Bilbo was content to sit there, the far-off squeals of delighted children drifting into his ears and the swirling images of scenarios for his characters in his mind's eye.

He did not realise how long he merely sits there until his phone goes off, it's tinny rendition of the Beach Boys jolting him back to reality. With a sigh, he really hadn't been quite as productive as he'd hoped, he returned indoors and set about pulling the lunch spread together.

What he ended up with, was a modest yet varied affair that he felt would appeal to whatever tastes his new neighbour and his friends may have.

There was a cheese board, some sliced french bread, a platter of cold meats and a bowl of potato salad, all arranged around a large colourful bowl of salad with lettuce and tomatoes and peppers and many other kinds of vegetables that Bilbo had spent many pains in layering carefully. There were also mini sausage-rolls and two pots of breadsticks, firm favourites at any buffet Bilbo had ever been to. Regrettably, he hadn't had chance to whip together a batch of something homebaked.

After dusting some imaginary crumbs from his trousers, he straightened his velvet waistcoat and eyed his table proudly; he'd even arranged it so it was a symmetrical as possible.

The door to Flat 23 was open, but he still rapped his knuckles on the dark wood and waited, refusing to give in to his curiosity and peek at the interior.

Just as his increasing temptation was making him start to lean around the door, his vision was blocked by the scowling figure of his tall neighbour. There was a sheen of sweat upon his brow and Bilbo thought it was most unfair - sweat was meant to be shiny and slightly gross, not glistening and disconcerting and attractive.

"What?" he bit out.

Thank goodness for small mercies. If the man wasn't such a grumpy arse, Bilbo was quite certain he'd forget himself.

Realising he still hadn't said anything, and Mr Oakenshield was glaring at him with those piercing blue eyes, he drew himself to his full (not very great) height and turned on his haughtiness.

"I don't know if Gandalf told you, but as a favour to him -" because there was no way Bilbo was letting this, this curmudgeon, think he was doing anything for him willingly "-I've provided you all with lunch. Just a simple spread, so come and help yourselves whenever you feel like it."

He grunted something that sounded vaguely like a 'thank you' and returned inside.

Almost an hour had passed by the time anyone arrived, and Bilbo was sat, twirling a pen around his fingers as he grazed on some bread and cheese, mulling over a suitable title for his latest book.

The knock was loud, the kind that belonged to someone know didn't quite know their own strength. Bilbo leapt up and answered the door and...oh my.

The man on his threshold was enormous, with a shaved head and an impressive greying beard. His tan skin was drowned out by the great dark tattoos that ran up his arms and under the sleeves of his black t-shirt. For lack of a better term, he looked exactly like one of those bikers the elder generations back in Tuckborough were always tutting about.

He was also looking down at Bilbo, his expression a mixture of amused and expectant.

"Err…"

"I hear there's food laddie?"

Bilbo nodded, pulling himself from his reverie.

"Right. Of course. This way."

Did he really just call him laddie? At thirty-seven it had been a long time since anyone had called him laddie - it was especially odd coming from someone who couldn't be more than ten years his senior.

"Help yourself," he said, gesturing to his kitchen table. "Oh and by the way, my name is Bilbo Baggins."

"Dwalin," he said, before stuffing a piece of smoked ham into his mouth. "'M Thorin's friend."

"Thorin?... Oh you mean Mr Oakenshield!"

Dwalin snorted, but said nothing further and chomped down on a breadstick as he loaded up a plate - Bilbo noted with some chagrin that he was completely avoiding his lovely salad.

He hovered by the table, hands fluttering as he was quite unsure of what to do with himself, then the door went again and he rushed to answer it. This time, it was a more reasonable sized man with tufty grey hair and a beard to match. He was also wearing tweed - Bilbo had great respect for people who wore tweed - and had no visible tattoos.

"Hello there," he greeted. "My name is Balin." He was Scottish, like Dwalin. He wondered if they were related, despite the fact they had no real resemblance, since their names matched. "I believe my brother's here?"

Ah so he was right then. Apparently, his parents weren't the only ones who liked themed naming (Bilbo, Belladonna and Bungo, really, so many 'B's).

"Right this way," he gestured towards the kitchen. "I'm Bilbo."

"It's a pleasure laddie."

Again with the 'laddie'. Perhaps it was a family thing.

Though Balin seemed a far more respectable individual - he actually used the cutlery Bilbo had set aside, instead of just stuffing food in his face - he too neglected the salads and so Bilbo didn't feel quite so bad digging in.

Once he had filled his own plate up with a healthy mix of foods, the door went again, and Bilbo sighed heavily, leaving his plate on the countertop as he went to answer.

It was not one of his neighbour's friends, but his own friend, Bofur, from down the hall. And he'd completely forgotten that he'd agreed to go out for lunch. Apologising profusely, he waved Bofur in and led him to the kitchen.

"Bilbo, it's fine," Bofur placated, "We can go out next weekend."

"Well I must insist you at least stay for lunch."

Bofur smiled and Bilbo was glad to note that he at least had some green food. He cast his friend a curious look once he noticed the two men sat down and Bilbo jumped to correct his oversight and introduce them.

Barely had his fingers brushed his china plate when the door went again.

"I should have left that blasted door open!" he cursed to himself.

This time, it was Gandalf, Mr Oakenshield himself, and one of his friends, a portly man with an incredible red beard.

"Bilbo my good man!" Gandalf greeted, "Hope there's enough for us all!"

"There's more than enough."

"I should hope so, I'm bloody starving!" exclaimed the redhead. He turned to Bilbo and held out his hand. "Glóin Durin, at your service."

Shaking his hand firmly, Bilbo replied, "Bilbo Baggins, at yours."

He couldn't resist the slight pointed look at his rude neighbour before letting go and leading them to the kitchen where the others were. Mr Oakenshield seemed a mite more pleasant around his friends, but was still waspish enough that Bilbo decided his default was in fact being a grump.

Gandalf had engaged Balin in a conversation about his teaching job so Bilbo lingered in the corner, chatting with Bofur as he finally got to eat.

"There's so much salad," he heard Glóin complain. Bilbo huffed to himself, noting Balin and Dwalin didn't even have the decency to look sheepish for eating so much of the meat.

"It seems Master Baggins has a great love of vegetables," Mr Oakenshield commented. And oh, his voice was rich and so condescending. "He should be a green grocer." At this he dragged his eyes up and down Bilbo's form. "He most certainly looks the part."

He nearly choked on a potato. "How do I look like a green grocer?"

The dark haired man shrugged, "It's a dated profession."

"Are you saying I look old?" he spluttered.

He raised an eyebrow incredulously, "You're wearing a velvet waistcoat."

Bilbo harrumphed, touching the hem of his waistcoat self-consciously. "At least I've had a haircut in the past year," he muttered.

Oakenshield glared.

"Enough you two," Gandalf admonished, and despite his stern tone, there was an amused twinkle in his eyes.

Mr Oakenshield went back to eating, stabbing his plate with such ferocity that Bilbo began to worry for the sake of his mother's china.

Bofur leaned into him, "What crawled up his arse and died?"

Bilbo snorted.

It would seem his new neighbour was a complete wanker.

Fortunately, he did not see much of Mr Oakenshield after that, and if their paths crossed, it was only to glare at one another. It seemed Mr Oakenshield did not have the same habits as Bilbo; his days were spent at work and he rarely ventured out onto his balcony whilst Bilbo spent an increasing amount of time on his as spring turned into summer. After about three weeks had passed, Bilbo had a nine o'clock meeting with his publisher, and so, red leather book in hand, he left the flat with plenty of time and found himself following Mr Oakenshield into the lift. He would have waited, or taken the stairs, but it seemed a bit silly, he was a grown man after all.

Oakenshield spent the entire ride down trying to burn holes in the lift doors with his eyes.

Barely had the lift doors opened, and he was off, storming across the foyer. Bilbo smirked, secretly enjoying how much of an annoyance his mere presence seemed to be.

The journey across town was just as uneventful and unpleasant as any journey on the Tube was wont to be.

Soon enough, he arrived at the publishing house and was greeted by Ori Mazar, the editor he worked with closely, who led him across the lobby, chatting excitedly about a new fantasy series he had found. Bilbo liked him well enough; he was young, shy yet excitable and with a penchant for knitted ties.

"So any idea what your brother wants me for?" he asked once they were in the lift.

Ori beamed, "You'll have to wait an see."

At least it was good news - the boy was practically bouncing on his toes.

The anticipation was well and truly curling around Bilbo's gut as the door dinged and slid open onto the floor where Nori was. Ori gave him a light push and he stepped out, smiling over his shoulder.

"Come and see me after!" he called, words almost lost to the closing doors.

Nori's head appeared around the door of his office and he gave Bilbo a rakish grin.

"If it isn't my dear friend Tilion Took," he drawled, sounding even more casual than he usually did, which meant he probably wanted something. Bilbo gave him an unimpressed look as he stepped into the airy office.

Perching himself on the edge of his mahogany desk, Nori gestured for Bilbo to join him in the leather armchair opposite.

"Before we get to the main reason I called you here today, I have a favour to ask," Nori said as Bilbo sat down.

He merely quirked an eyebrow in response.

"A book signing. In London."

Bilbo stared at him flatly. Nori knew his stance on these things.

"I know you like your anonymity, but being honest, you're hardly likely to bump into anyone you know. And the publicity won't hurt. Especially with what I've got to tell you."

Bilbo had the distinct feeling he wouldn't be hearing the news until he agreed. Nori was tricky like that, also terrifyingly persuasive. And he did have a fair point in regards to the publicity. And Bilbo did quite like meeting his fans face to face and seeing the wide range of people whose lives he'd managed to touch in his own small way.

"Alright, I'll do it."

Nori smiled, the kind of smile that indicated he knew Bilbo would agree all along, and passed him a post-it note.

"Here's the initial details, it'll be at Blackwells, second Saturday in July, I'll e-mail you all the finer points tomorrow."

Bilbo stuck it to the inside cover of his notebook, just above the golden embossed 'Westmarch's'.

"Now," Nori clapped his hands together, "Onto the good stuff; New Line Cinema wants to buy the rights to the Wardens of Rhûn."

Straight to the point as always, Nori gave Bilbo no time to recover or respond in any way before continuing to talk. Bilbo wasn't listening, but staring unseeingly at the hilt of Nori's sword-replica letter-opener that had been stabbed through some papers into the desk in lieu of a paperweight.

The film rights.

They wanted to buy the film rights.

"Bilbo!"

Nori was smirking at him.

"You weren't listening, were you?"

At least Bilbo had the decency to attempt a chastened look around his shellshock.

Once Nori had explained the bare bones of the proposal to him (thankfully, Bilbo, should the venture proceed, would be given some creative input) so he could begin negotiations, Bilbo took the lift down to Ori's office.

He was a mature and dignified individual, and therefore he never made any high pitched noises such as squealing, but really, his book could soon be a film!

Bilbo was in such a good mood all that week and well into the next that not even a sudden three-day summer rainstorm could dampen it. Nor did bumping into Mr Oakenshield, whose glares had taken on an edge somewhere between worried and confused at Bilbo's sunny disposition.

He was stood out on his balcony, breathing in the earthy smell that lingered after rain; it was not nearly so pleasant here as in the country, but he was glad that the city air hadn't smothered it entirely. Whilst he was checking on his delphiniums, a deep voice sounded out behind him.

"What is it with you and the flowers?"

Bilbo whirled around to see Mr Oakenshield, reclined casually against the railing of his own balcony, a glass of water clasped in his hand.

"I like them," he said with a shrug, not wishing to elaborate lest he get drawn into a conversation with his neighbour. His good mood had lasted all week.

He turned back to his flowers, but it seemed Oakenshield did not want to let the conversation go.

"Do you even have a job?" he asked bluntly.

Bilbo whirled around, incredulous, "Excuse me?"

He said nothing more, instead taking a long drink from his glass of water. It was not in any way an attractive gesture.

"If you must know," he answered snottily, "I'm a writer."

"Ah," and there was that condescending smirk again. "So you're a bartender then."

He would not rise to the bait any further than he already had, so he merely growled and stomped off inside, hoping the middle finger he waved in his neighbour's direction was subtle enough that the man didn't actually see it.

As was the occurrence on so many other mornings, the morning when Bilbo had the book signing he was awoken by a loud, obnoxious cooing.

Smaug.

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo shoved one of his pillows onto his face, begging for just enough peace for ten minutes more sleep; his alarm would probably go off soon anyway.

'Coo coo.'

No such luck.

'Coo coo.'

Oh how he hated that pigeon so.

Without fail, come rain or shine, or whatever meteorological delight London's climate decided to throw at its inhabitants, Smaug the pigeon would perch atop the railings to the balcony outside and call really, really loudly. Louder than he ever thought possible for a pigeon.

But Smaug was no ordinary pigeon. Oh no. He was clever. He was evil. No attempts to get rid of the foul beast had worked.

Not even the anti pigeon spikes. Instead, Smaug had just sat on the edge of one of his pots of irises, managing to knock it over and spill soil and flowers all over the balcony. Then, to add insult to injury, the infernal creature had crapped all over his gardenias.

'Coo coo.'

With a groan of exasperation, Bilbo got up to go and make himself a cup of breakfast tea, glaring at the grey bird through the screen door. The hot beverage soothed his temper somewhat, enough that a small smile curled at his lips whilst he prepared his breakfast and by the time he had finished his bacon and eggs he was sufficiently content to deal with London's public transport without reaching the book signing with a mood blacker than Smaug's soul.

He arrived right on time, half an hour before the signing was due to begin and was a little surprised and very touched by the queue already amassing to see him. One of the bookshop attendants, a tall, stern-faced young man by the name of Lindir, led him through the maze of bookshelves to his desk, a long table, covered by a red cloth, with stacks of the two released books in the Wardens of Rhûn quadrilogy and flanked by two large cardboard banners, each boldly proclaiming his nom de plume and the covers of the first two books and the third, along with its October release date.

"Really, you cannot spend more than a minute with each person, and it's one book per person, after all, we've got to keep it moving."

Bilbo nodded, settling himself in the chair before taking out his trusty fountain pen.

After about an hour he was really getting into the swing of things; it was an absolute delight to speak to his fans and to hear all their own speculations for how they thought the story would develop, some almost accurate, others startlingly farfetched.

He was charmed in particular by one little girl, called Rosie, of around 11 who had the most battered, well-loved copy of his first book that he'd ever seen.

"Finally saved up enough pocket money to buy this," she said, excitedly as she handed him a new copy of his second book. She scratched her arm in a sheepish gesture, "I keep getting tempted away and buying nail varnish."

He looked to her fingers then and saw that each finger was painted with a different colour of polish.

"Well we all have our vices," he smiled, "I myself have twenty different varieties of tea in my kitchen."

He finished writing a nice message in the book and handed it over. "Here, take it, that way you could buy yourself a new nail polish today as well,"

She beamed at him, "Or I could wait until October and buy your book when it comes out for once."

Bilbo gave a laugh, "Or that."

Bilbo caught Lindir giving him a look and Rosie seemed to catch on, skipping away with the book clutched to her chest.

"Thank you Mr Took!"

During his half an hour lunch break, Lindir had pulled him aside and asked him to please refrain from giving away too many copies of the books and Bilbo had taken heed of that, though he quite liked the idea of giving the books out freely (Nori would probably have given him an earful for his troubles as well).

As the afternoon progressed, he mused that he would have much rather spent more time with each individual instead of the fleeting moments he got, but in the long run, he supposed, it was probably better that he got to see more people, than less.

His reverie was abruptly broken by an all too familiar deep voice.

"Mr Baggins?"

No, no, Nori had him certain that he wouldn't encounter anybody he knew, London was after all, such a large place.

He looked up, swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat, and sure enough there he was: Mr Oakenshield.

Well, damn.