The tougher side of Bilbo (the part that had attacked fearsome foes once upon a time) wanted to staunchly deny that it took almost three hours to halt his breakdown.
Bilbo reasoned that anyone who travelled over half a century back in time deserved at least several hours to stop crying, rampaging and running around trying to ignore the overwhelming evidence that this was reality and not some sadistic dream.
It was the sight of Drogo, young and most definitely alive, smoking his father's pipe as he escorted Primula Brandybuck down the lane that convinced him. The sight of the gleamingly polished mahogany pipe was testimony enough that this was no dream; such a detail would most certainly have been overlooked if this was some elaborate trick.
Bilbo remembered when their bodies were dredged from the river, the pipe still perfectly cared for in his (second) cousin's breast pocket.
Bilbo himself had taken to using it after his adventures with the Company saw the loss of his own pipe.
This was real.
He shakily pressed himself back from the window, sliding down the curved wall of the corridor with the grace of a man mortally wounded. His hands, so youthful and smooth with none of the hardness of a working life, curled into fists; one tugging harshly at the messy curls on his head, the other pressed tightly to his clenched mouth.
His sobs were silent but nevertheless filled with aching emotion.
Grief… shock… sorrow...but, also, a fiery determination; they were alive, all of them. Not just his young cousins but everyone. The Company of his dear friends, those two mischievous dwarfish princelings, Thorin…and Gandalf, Frodo and Elrond were all still here (despite one not yet being born, but Bilbo consoled himself that it was only a matter of time before his beloved nephew was with him once more).
But he was here with them all and, more importantly, he remembered everything.
He could save them, stop everything from falling to ruin once more.
He could fix it.
Or, Bilbo compromised with his common sense that reminded him that, despite his extra years, he was still a soft-hearted hobbit with no fighting (or burgling) prowess...he'd give it a good ol' try!
-oOOOo-
Bilbo decided that his first order of business back in the body of his fifty-year-old self was, naturally, lunch.
In the years before he sailed, his body had reacted so violently to the destruction of the ring that he could barely stand to stomach anything and his body started to fail him. It had been a terrible time, feeling like he was losing his own body. His hobbit pride had been dealt an infuriating blow; no more could he stomach the numerous meals a day that the Shire-folk based their lives around, his shrunken stomach fit to burst with three like the other races; it was humiliating to say the least (Bilbo was only glad then that, other than Frodo and his merry trio of comrades, Rivendell was hobbit-free).
It was only right, Bilbo assured his empty smial, that he made up for all those lost meals over the years!
Despite the extensive food already prepared in his cold rooms and larders, Bilbo found himself greatly comforted by cooking. He hadn't baked or done anything of the sort in many a year, due to being a guest of the elves and also his own increasing frailty. In fact, Bilbo was guiltily sure that he hadn't cooked anything since that fateful night he had fled the Shire, leaving the ring in poor Frodo's possession. Over twenty years… at least he had apparently forgotten nothing about it…
After a scrumptious meal of fried fish (he couldn't help but chortle at how he'd absently managed to cook the very meal that Dwalin had filched from when they'd met) washed down with a very expensive white (Bilbo thought his first meal back was a worthy occasion), his Aunt Dorotheas' secret spice roast vegs and a sticky toffee pudding, Bilbo decided that if there was ever a time to rejuvenate his yet-unestablished writing career, now was it.
He had thought hard over the course of his meal, thoughtful comments hanging in the empty smial (he had not lived alone or eaten alone in such a very long time that he found himself speaking his mind aloud more and more frequently. Naturally, there was no one to reply.) and come to the conclusion that it was only rational he wrote down all he could remember, lest he forget or (Yavanna forbid, he gulped nervously) something happen to him.
But now, years of gossip as The Baggins and, later, as 'Mad Baggins' had taught Bilbo the value of caution.
People were dreadfully fickle, few as much as Hobbit-folk when faced with anything to do with the external affairs.
If he wrote his memories as a story, then people would think nothing of it. Despite the staunch outlook of Hobbits (excluding a few branches of family) towards adventures and outsiders in general, children were children and a fanciful tale would be exceptionally well received.
New names would be easily imagined, a few details altered (not One Ring but, maybe, a circlet...?) and no one would be any the wiser; Gandalf, the crafty mischief-maker he was, might see through but Bilbo wasn't sure he wanted to keep the truth from his dearest friend anyway; it would definitely make life easier if the Grey Wizard knew all.
Late that night, Bilbo sat in his armchair for a good long while, smoking on his old pipe and dressed in his favourite velvet dressing gown. The fire glowed gently, washing the dark room in a soft golden glow and humming with warmth. In his lap sat his small desk calendar that he had picked up when coming through the corridor. His fingers were slightly stained with ink that had long since dried and that he'd been careful not to spill anywhere. Dates had been circled with shaky hands and the day's date had a wobbly 'x' marking it.
Of course, of course.
It was so cliché Bilbo wanted to laugh at how ironic it was. His writers mind supplied that if this was a book, he probably would have scoffed and tossed it away at the predictable 'plot-twist'.
Of course, he had only two weeks until that fateful visit from Gandalf.