Bilba knew, theoretically, that there were people who honestly enjoyed going to the gym. She had met people who had claimed to love it— the exercise, the sense of accomplishment, the socialization— and most of the people she saw slogging away on the machines every week seemed content enough. Some of them even smiled while they did their circuits, chattering about how many kilometres they'd done that day, or how many reps, or what have you.

She had seen these nutters with her own eyes, and she honestly had no idea what to make of them. She settled, more often than not, for nodding encouragingly whenever their passions for public fitness regimes came up.

It did come up, no matter how much she tried to avoid it; there was only so often a woman could go to the same gym before she became a regular. Only so many times she could workout over the course of a week before people started making assumptions that she liked being there, for whatever insane reason.

Bilba did not like going to the gym. It was, in her estimation, equivalent in pleasure to a visit to the dentist— not fun by any definition, but generally kept to a low simmer of necessary evil.

And yet, to the gym she went, four days a week like clockwork.

Saturday was usually Pilates and a short circuit around the machines for cardio and strength training. This particular Saturday, Bilba had resigned herself to spending a bit longer on the elliptical and doing a few more sets of crunches for good measure— she had been flustered enough at Tesco to actually buy the crisps, despite not really wanting them. Then, as these things sometimes went, she ended up finishing the whole bag while catching up on the episodes of QI she'd recorded before Christmas, and hadn't had a chance to watch yet.

The Tesco lad, Alfie, had been newly hired and probably no more than seventeen. He'd also fallen all over himself, blushing and stammering and offering to pack up her groceries for her until the manager had swept in to shoo him off. All things considered, it was far from the most uncomfortable scenario she'd ever found herself in when being recognized, but Bilba had still felt her own face growing warm, especially since she hadn't been able to leave the store before the evening crowd had noticed something awry and the nosy gawkers had closed in.

She wasn't ashamed of her job— most days, she liked it well enough. Somedays, she even loved it. It paid the bills with enough left over for some lovely creature comforts, it allowed her to work with wonderful people, and it fed her dreadful addiction to fancy knickers. There was no doubt in her mind that she was incredibly lucky to have fallen into it as she did, evolving somehow from a part-time lark of a job for a family friend to help pay her way through university, to a internationally recognized and rather glamorous career.

All that aside, however, it would have been rather refreshing to pop out to the shops without being recognized, especially recognized for more than her face. It could get rather awkward, a titch embarrassing, and on especially inappropriate occasions, reactions did sometimes cross the line into obscene. On those (blessedly) rare days, Bilba found herself seriously considering other lines of work, but the good still vastly outweighed the bad, and so she stayed.

It wasn't as though a change of career was guaranteed to escape the occasionally rude bastard making lewd comments about her body, or even trying to take liberties uninvited and unwanted. Bilba wasn't certain there was a woman alive lucky enough to avoid that entirely, from librarians to police officers, politicians to shop clerks, or anything between and beyond.

Most librarians and shop clerks didn't have to stand at the tube station beside an eight-foot poster of their own bottom in skimpy lace knickers, however.

It was currently mid-morning, a relatively quiet period wedged neatly between the early morning rush and the afternoon crowd at the gym, and Bilba was pushing herself through fifteen extra minutes on the elliptical, nearly ready for her cool down. A few pieces of her hair had come loose from her bun, sticking wetly to her neck, while her dark red t-shirt was plastered against the small of her back and her chest.

Gandalf's long-standing sentiment for his advertisements was natural is beautiful. Ori, or any other photographer she had ever worked with on a GG shoot, was always instructed to treat any and all photoshopping with the lightest possible touch. There wasn't any magical thinning of her limbs, nor any inches shaved from her waist or her face; the woman posing in garter and bustier on the eleventh page of Glamour looked almost exactly like the woman who peered out at Bilba from her bathroom mirror (not counting the makeup and hair, softened lighting, and Ori's excellent eye for composition). The most significant changes were always the removal of her smattering of ruddy freckles and the faint stretchmarks she had on her hips, and Bilba didn't regret the loss of either.

She had learned, over the years, that Gandalf's proclamation about keeping her photos as true to life as possible extended farther than she had ever reasonably anticipated; it only took one shoot after a holiday in Greece and the subsequent glossy proofs of her wine-and-pasta potbelly in all its glory to convince her that committing to a stricter gym routine was the easiest course of action. She was curvier than some other models, and both she and Gandalf preferred it that way, but her own vanity did occasionally rear its head.

Gandalf's reaction to the potbelly photos had been to smile beatifically, with that damnably sincere twinkle in his bright blue eyes, and assure her that she was perfectly lovely, my dear. He'd actually seemed pleased.

At least she didn't have to worry overmuch about the inevitable creep of age; Gandalf had already informed her, without prompting, that she would have a place with Garnished & Gilded for as long as she wished, in whatever capacity. He simply tossed a lifetime of employment security in her lap with hardly a care in the world, and damn that batty old sod, she knew he meant every word.

Grabbing her towel, Bilba slowed her workout to a stop, hopping off the machine and slinging the plush terrycloth around the back of her neck. Catching her breath, she wiped down the machine absently, already thinking ahead to a refreshing shower and a pop down to her usual cafe for lunch.

Lost in thought, she didn't entirely realize she was staring at a person, rather than simply off into space, until a pointed throat-clearing shook her back to attention.

"Oh god," she said, eyes snapping up and away from the very toned, well-muscled arm that had been the focus of her unintentional gawking, as gleaming biceps and triceps flexed beneath the nearby pull-up bar. The man attached to that arm was levelling her with a cool, unblinking look that she couldn't read at all, holding himself up off the floor with what appeared to be minimal strain, and she was suddenly so very relieved that her workout had put a flush in her cheeks already.

The man wasn't someone she'd seen around the gym before— she would have remembered that face, handsome and distinct as it was, not to mention the long, well-turned-out lines of his body under that sleeveless top and dark mesh trousers. The combination of those steely eyes, with that sharp jut of a nose, and a swathe of dark stubble should have been illegal, or at least required a bloody permit.

Permit to be outrageously gorgeous and fit while Bilba Baggins puts her foot in it. Issued to one Handsome Gym Stranger; never expires.

"I didn't— I wasn't—" Slapping her hand over her mouth, Bilba considered whether tossing her towel over her head and fleeing toward the ladies' locker room was an appropriate course of action.

She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the sort of expression she'd been wearing while staring at this man. Bofur called it ravishingly ravenous; it was, apparently, a particular look that stole across her face whenever she got on to thinking about good food. There were occasions when Ori, flushed pink, would ask her to focus on supper during a shoot, just to get the proper sensual expression he was aiming for.

She'd been thinking about a delicious turkey and avocado sandwich this time, with juicy fresh tomato. She'd been so hungry for it.

"Oh god," she said again, sliding her hand up to her sweat-damp, burning cheek. The man kept hanging there, not speaking or granting her the mercy of looking away. The weight of his pale, slate blue gaze was incredibly intense, and Bilba wanted desperately to sink into the floor. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare at all— I was just... I was thinking about lunch, and got distracted. Sorry, sorry again."

"It's fine," the man said, finally, his glance flickering away, releasing her like a snapped elastic band, and his arms tightening again as he lifted his chin above the bar without a hint of quivering. He made it look so easy, but then again, with those shoulders...

Thank goodness, she was free to scurry off as quick as her sore legs would carry her, and sod her stretching. She wasn't about to loiter around at this point, heading straight for the showers instead. With any luck at all, she might be able to scrub off this feeling of her skin being on fire with the force of her flush, from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet.


As squeaky clean as possible from gym showers— she did, and always would, vastly prefer the particulars of her own bathroom, thank you kindly, but she had no intention of stepping foot outside this gym without rinsing off a bucket or two of sweat first— Bilba changed back into her jeans and blouse. She left her cardigan unbuttoned against the lingering warmth suffusing her from the workout and the water, and replaced squeaky trainers with her favourite brown loafers, the leather polished to a sheen. Her hair was still a little damp, curling loose around her shoulders, but not too wet to brave the chill outside if she tucked it under her coat collar.

She hadn't really considered the possibility of running into Handsome Stranger on her hurried way out, which was a silly omission in hindsight. As her treacherous luck would have it, she very nearly ran into him in a literal sense, tripping over her own feet when she turned a corner by the main desk and there he was, filling up a glossy clear water bottle at one of the fountains.

His hair was spiking wet, whether with sweat or water she didn't know for certain, but the deep blue of his shirt had gone darker under his arms and around his neck. He wasn't quite as impossibly tall as he'd seemed hanging from that bar, but an inch or two shy of six feet still put him nearly a foot taller than her. He certainly held himself with a sizable sort of presence, all shoulders and quiet gravitas, and Bilba felt her stomach flutter foolishly when he glanced over at her fumbling.

"Hello again," she managed, fingers worrying along the strap of her satchel, then swallowed when the man said nothing. His eyebrows crept ever so slightly upward, but that was the extent of his acknowledgement.

After one awkward, silent moment, Bilba gathered herself, taking a deep breath and lifting her chin. She even found the wherewithal to smile, just a little upturn of her lips, but true; she was more embarrassed about behaving so embarrassed, anyway.

"Right," she said, calming. "Well, I hope you have a lovely day."

And on that relatively high note, Bilba darted widely around him, making her way towards the large glass doors that led out into the chilly winter streets. She was determined not to turn back for one last peek, not willing to risk being caught out again, when a deep, slightly Northern accented voice called out from some distance behind her.

"Enjoy your lunch." After that, Bilba couldn't help but look back for just an instant; the man didn't look cheerful, precisely, but the corner of his fine lips was quirked up ever so slightly as he watched her go.

Watched her face, not her bottom, which was a very important distinction.

Offering wordless thanks with an unusually clumsy little wave, Bilba hugged her coat a bit tighter and slipped outside, very aware that he could still see her through the glass as she paced off down the pavement. If he cared to look.