"Do invite us inside, Master Baggins, if you will," drawled the old man. "It is not the warmest of nights and I am quite famished."
Bilbo had a vague memory of what words were like. "Um…I….um…"
"Yes, yes! Come right in!" The accountant man in the plaid shirt shoved Bilbo to the side and beckoned the two into the house. Bilbo's house. (Or once upon a time it was Bilbo's house). "There are some tuna sandwiches and spaghetti left, but not much I'm afraid, our host had a somewhat meager pantry-"
That's because it's enough for one person, not for hosting the fucking traveling circus.
"And even that's not gunna last," chimed in Moustache-and-Hat, "if Mr. Nori and I 'ave to hold back Mr. Bombur much longer." He and Starfish Head each had a firm hand on the arms of a very unhappy Ginger Donut Man.
"All the precautions have been made?"
Oh, dear God, that voice. It belonged to Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome who stepped right by him without a second glance, and it threw Bilbo down a cliff made of chocolate and cinnamon and some other foreign spice that reminded him of that odd rum cake that Mirabelle's uncle from Bosnia brought to a Christmas party once-
"Perimeter checked, tighter than a baby's arse," replied the human refrigerator with a growl. Those biceps could splitBilbo's head like a melon- no no don't think about it.
"Bifur says 'e covered all the windows," declared Moustache-and-Hat after the Hole-Headed Man made a few rapid gestures.
"Gloin and Oin are takin' first watch," added Balin.
"And I disconnected the phones!" chirped the blonde college-age boy.
Bilbo's mouth went bone dry. Shit, they were good.
"Oh heavens, where are my manners?" Gandalf clapped his hands with a cheerful gasp. "I've neglected to introduce our host!"
And suddenly a force expected of a man half Gandalf's age dragged Bilbo into the center of the foyer. Bilbo's mouth thought now would be a brilliant time to go on strike. Thanks a shitton.
"Thorin – and all present company - this is Bilbo Baggins, our most gracious host for this evening." Bilbo bristled internally at the pride and joy in Gandalf's voice. "And Bilbo" – the writer's body was swiveled around – "allow me to introduce the leader of this enterprise, Mr. Thorin Oakenshield."
Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome had removed the long black coat to reveal the navy suit that Bilbo only got a glimpse of earlier. To call it 'well cut' was to call the Hope Diamond 'nice and sparkly'. It was stunning; it fit the Romanian god before him like a glove, with not a single goddamn ripple or wrinkle out of place. Somewhere out there, some tailor should have enough savings to retire to the Caymans after making this piece of fucking art.
"Pleasure." His rough dark hand engulfed Bilbo's pasty one.
"L-L-Likew-" But the handshake ended before Bilbo could get a word out.
Ding-dong.
Everyone – because apparently everyone had piled into his foyer – froze.
"Who the fuck is left?" hissed the brown-haired college boy.
No one answered.
Starfish Head made for the door. "I'll handle-
"No" snarled Scary Dude. "Get the fuck back."
And before Starfish could protest, Scary Dude pushed him and Mr. TDH away, then with cat-like steps approached the door. The rest of the party pressed their backs against the foyer walls and staircase. No one dared let out so much as a breath.
Ding-dong. Scary Dude jerked his hand. Out clicked a switchblade. He peered through the peephole and then wrenched the door open with a huff.
Standing there was a pale Asian boy carrying a plastic bag labeled 'Wong Wok'. Seeing Big Bald Scary Dude, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates.
"O-order for Mister B-Baggins!"
"That's me-Umph!" Bilbo's mouth was promptly covered by a hand far from sanitary. Do not vomit. Do not vomit, you have nothing to vomit up.
"I'll take it." Scary Dude snatched the bag, took a mighty sniff, and smiled cruelly. Like fucking hell was he going to take Bilbo's Wong Wok. "Whatcha still standin there for?"
The boy nearly fell of the stoop, the poor kid. "Th-Tha-that'll c-cost 11.40, s-sir."
"11.40, eh?"
"Y-y-yes…"
"There ya go." In swooped Balin with a kindly smile and a few bills. "For yer pains" - Bilbo caught the flash of a $50 bill slipped into the boy's hand– "an' your discretion. Just another normal delivery to Mister Baggins' house. Nothin' unusual an' no one else home, understood?" As kind as she seemed, her voice had steel in it.
The boy's eyes had popped like Ping-Pong balls.
"Undastood?" snarled Bald Scary Dude.
"Yes sir!" yelped the boy, all but tripping off the stoop. "Good day sir! Thank you Mr. Baggins!" A car door slammed and a set of tires squealed away before the front door was shut again (and locked.) The foyer released a collective breath.
"I think he understood," Balin said dryly.
Bilbo let out a squeak. His mouth was freed and he gasped a breath, just barely resisting the urge to fall to his knees. "Sorry 'bout tha', Mister Baggins." Moustache-and-Hat clapped a heavy hand on his back. He stank of oil and cigarettes. Meanwhile, Scary Dude handed off the 'Wong Wok' bag to Mr. TDH
Goddamn it.
"He" – the dark man looked to Gandalf, jerking his chin at Bilbo – "is who you choose as the last member of our Company?"
"Yes. He is." Gandalf maintained a polite expression, but something in that tone made Bilbo's neckhairs curl.
"You chose a hobbit?"
Scary Dude snorted. Balin pressed her lips thin. The college boys bit their lips to hold back their snickers.
"A what?"
Fourteen pairs of eyes bored into Bilbo's skull. Dead silence in every sense of the phrase fell on the room.
Of all the fucking times for Bilbo's mouth to start functioning again.
"A hobbit." The dark man bit the word like a nut. Scary Dude continued to sneer.
"Come now, Bilbo." A gentle hand fell onto Bilbo's shoulder. Gandalf stood just behind him and threw a withering look at Mr. TDH. "It means nothing."
While residents of Hobbiton frequently called themselves 'Hobbits' and 'Hobbitonites', the sneer that Mr. TDH put into the word – along with the hint of a strange, gravelly accent – made Bilbo think that this man meant it in another way. And based on the red-faced, sniggring reaction of everyone else in the room, it was not meant kindly.
"And what the fuck is a hobbit?"
No, the 'dead silence' before was a joke, a goddamned party in comparison. This was dead silence, where most of the room had gone pale, Gandalf's eyebrows flew up his forehead, and Mr. TDH's pale eyes sliced Bilbo like razor blades.
What the fuck was Bilbo doing? What the fucking fuck was Bilbo thinking? Easy: he wasn't. The chaos begun by Batty British Santa had plunged his brain into a sea of fear and panic, which slammed against the pillars of his common sense and survival instincts with every newly arrived intruder. And this Romanian god/jackass named Thorin had just flung the toppling blow.
"Listen, Bilbo-"
"No!" he snapped, ripping the old man's hand off his shoulder. "Not listening anymore! I am fucking through! Gracious host, my great aunt's blistering ass! All I fucking see is fourteen fucking criminals standing in my goddamn house! The only gracious about me is that I haven't called the cops! Which I can't! Because I'm a fucking hostage. In my own fucking home!"
Bilbo whirled around and jabbed a finger towards the tall Romanian jackass. "You! If you're the leader of this 'enterprise' then lead them out the door and never come goddamn back!"
Mr. Tall, Dark and Dickish stared at him. His eyes had gone beyond icicles and now hurled blue blizzards at Bilbo. Bilbo however had no more fucks to give. This man had ignited something in Bilbo that the writer hadn't felt in a long time (read: never), and now he was gonna fuckin' burn for it.
"And if I refuse?" The man whispered it low, acid dripping with every syllable.
Bilbo let out a grumble, gripping his hands into test fists. No fucking chance he had of fighting anyone here – not even the old man – but he could very well pretend.
Except not. Fourteen to one were bad odds for anyone, including tiny little Bilbo Baggins, semi-professional writer and career coward.
"Fine," he snapped. "Do what you want." The 'Wong Wok' bag crackled as he ripped it from Thorin's hand. "Eat all my goddamn tuna, but allow me some shred of peace."
And with a likely overdramatic flourish of his robe – he was still wearing his bathrobe for Christ's sake - he stomped past Starfish Head and Carrot-Sticks through the living room and slammed the doors of his study.
His lo mein wasn't even warm anymore.
Bilbo…
Where was he? He was floating, the air like molasses. No, he was swimming, but he couldn't see, everything was black as night.
Bilbo…
He opened his mouth to answer – dumb fuck! The water spilled in and seized his lung. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't fucking breathe.
Bilbo…
Where was he he couldn't breathe the water held him in its iron clutches he couldn't breathe someone cackling in the distance and horror seized his veins he couldn't breathe he could breathe he was drowning he couldn't breathe-
"Bilbo!"
"Garh!" The sea disappeared, the water vanished from his lungs and he bolted up, gulping in the sweet, delicious air.
"It's alright, Bilbo, you're alright.
Shit. He wokefrom one nightmare right into a-fucking-nother.
"How'd you feel?"
It was like looking through a crappy microscopic with smeared lens, but eventually Bilbo's eyes made out the face of an old man – not Gandalf, thank fuck - with blonde-white hair, a Hawaiian shirt and a scraggly beard. He knelt beside Bilbo's sprawled form on the living room couch, an open med kit on the floor. It had to be the living room; he'd recognize that robin's-egg-blue paint anywhere. His mother had so insistently wanted that color when they first moved to Bag-End that she painted the room herself – without a single clue of how to paint. It took two weeks and five coats to get it decent, but she damn well did it. That was Belladonna Took for you.
"Well?" The strange old man looked at him impatiently.
"Grrmghergermergh," tumbled out of the now unofficially retired writer.
"You passed out in your study." No. Fuck no. But too bad: there sitting on a yellow armchair with his legs crossed and his blue eyes a-twinkling sat Bilbo's arch-nemesis of the moment. "Low blood sugar and the rush of adrenaline caused you to crash, according to Mr. Oin's scientific expertise. Your head had plopped right into your lo mein."
A withered hand pressed against the front of Bilbo's head. It felt anything but grandfatherly. "No bump, good. Ye'll be fine, no lastin' harm done. But if someone could get some goddamn beer or toast into this kid, he'll be doin' a hell of a lot better."
"Mr. Baggins doesn't drink," drawled the rage-inducing old man.
"I have the toast- Mr. Bilbo!" A wide-eyed Carrotsticks rushed in with a plate. "You're awake, thank goodness! We were worried 'bout your tumble."
We? Why on earth would a baker's dozen of criminals care about his wellbeing?
"Ye got the toast?" grumbled Oin.
"Yep, here it is."
"Wha'?"
Carrotsticks rolled her eyes with a huff and showed him the plate.
"Ah!" cried the old man. "Good job, Laurie. Get it in 'im while it's hot. Gandalf." He nodded at Gandalf and strode out of the room.
"It's not hot," she murmured at the ground. "Sorry 'bout that, I think we used up all your bread."
"Thanks," Bilbo mumbled. It was dry, rubbery, and as promised, cold. He ate anyway.
Her smile was small and positively adorable. "You're welcome." How the hell did she get mixed with this crowd? "My name's Ori, by the way. I realize there's a lot of names you're going to have to remember if you're coming with us."
Bilbo spat out a half-chewed ball of toast. "What?"
"Ori," crooned Gandalf a calm tone. "Why don't you rejoin the party? Thank you for the toast."
Biting her lip, she nodded, but threw a worried look at Bilbo before scurrying out.
"Now." The old man, much to Bilbo's horror, luxuriated back into the yellow armchair with a sigh. "Where shall we begin?"
"Roget's Thesaurus," grumbled Bilbo, pulling a blanket over his weak frame. "All the entries for 'insufferable prick'."
Gandalf smiled. Bilbo hated that smile.
"And then, we can move onto why I have a small zoo in my home," he spat.
"Why don't you tell me?"
"Fuckin' what?"
Gandalf was unruffled. He perched his hands atop his knee. "Imagine if this were one of your stories, Bilbo. Indulge me: what do you think is happening right now?"
The fuck. Had the old man finally gone loony? Did he not understand that there was a big bloody difference between real-life and fiction? That this is no goddamned story, but Bilbo's fucking life.
But: if…
"Hard to say. You got quite the motley crew in there," he replied dryly.
"Tell me about them then."
Bilbo scoffed, but then coughed. Still weak, still can't run. Shit. "Fine, whatever, um…" He frowned. "The big one who's bald and with tattoos all over. I'd say ex-con, but…"
"But…" Gandalf raised his eyebrow, the infuriating smile crawling up again.
"One of them had an anchor and a banner over it in Latin. So, veteran. Navy, maybe, or even Marines. And based on the accent, that would be the Royal Navy, then. But some of them are prison tattoos, but they're older, and he doesn't bother to hide them. So he cleaned up his act and went into the military."
The old man nodded.
"And then Balin. She's…peculiar. Seems to care about everyone, seems grandmotherly, but at the same time, cold, you know? And she doesn't have a wedding ring. So, just a kind…kind-ish old woman. Important, too, and smart, though she dresses otherwise."
"How do you figure that?"
"She swore in German, but her accent's British. Plus, when she was walking around McBroodypants-"
"I beg your pardon?"
Bilbo huffed. "Fine, I think his name was Thorin. Whatever, he threw her a look of respect. So, unmarried matron who dresses how she likes and speaks German. That's Balin
"Next, the guy with the starfish hair. I think his name was Nori. Oh." Bilbo's mouth dropped a bit. "Balin, Dwalin. Nori, Ori, Dori. The names rhyme when they're-"
"Family, yes," confirmed Gandalf. He was smiling hard, so Bilbo must be guessing pretty well.
"So he's brothers with Ori. They don't seem too close though; he's older, so maybe grew up apart. Or he spent some time in prison - and she resents that. But she doesn't seem the resentful type. Dori, on the other hand; they don't speak to each other."
"Tell me more about them individually."
"Erm, Nori used to steal. From houses, maybe, or petty theft. I didn't see any prison tattoos so no gangs; he just goes his own bad way. Dori's an accountant. I dunno why I think 'accountant' when I see him, but I do. He works hard, lives a structured life, trying to save up for something; that's why he and Ori wear threadbare clothes even though he's got an accountant's salary. but seems too regimented for his own good. Ori doesn't like it, but she's too shy to say something. She's an anxious type. Bites her nails, lip tremble, possibly low self-esteem when it comes to standing up for herself. She's a student, I suppose. Her skin is pasty and soft, so spends a lot of time indoors; she blinks a lot, so uses the computer quite a bit. Seems exceptionally young in this crowd, even compared to the college-age boys. Are they twins?"
"Who? Fili and Kili?"
"Christ, more rhyming names." Bilbo rolled his eyes. "They seem like the type that'd rush a frat the moment they step into college, but nice enough: they brought Balin and Ori beers politely enough. They want to be at the big boy's table so they hang around the likes of Dwalin and Nori, especially Dwalin. Who's left?"
"Bofur, Bifur, Bombur. Bofur has a hat, Bifur has a scar, Bombur has…a girth."
"Ah. I dunno how's they're related. None of them look alike. Oh well, Bofur works with cars. He's got the smell of it and the quick wit of a mechanic who's gotta keep customers entertained; you should've heard the jokes he was telling in front of the portrait of my grandmother. Anyway, he looks out for Bombur and Bifur – did I get those right? Bifur is mute, not deaf; he heard Thorin's question, but had to respond in sign language. Is that because of the scar in his head? It looks like a bullet hole, but I can't be sure. I wonder where he works, if he works at all; I'm sure employers don't look at him too kindly. Bombur, I've not spent much time around. He's fat, that's for sure, but doesn't talk much. Maybe because of low self-image issues, so he's had a weight problem for a while. I can't tell what job he has, so I doubt he likes it much. None of them make much money though."
Gandalf continued to smile. "How about Oin and his brother Gloin?"
"Those two? They both wear Hawaiian shirts and both have tans, so retired or living like it. Oin looks older than he is; his hearing is gone and his skin is withered, but his hair's not gone gray yet. He has medical training, but no physician's touch, that's for sure. I almost want to say he's a veteran; likely 'Nam or the Gulf. No, 'Nam. Definitely 'Nam. Gloin, on the other hand, smiles more, seems more aware. He's in his late 50's but he dyes his hair and wears a goatee, so I want to say he worked in the music industry, or some equivalent thereof. Got a wife though, I saw his ring, and he was talking fondly about someone named Gimli to Fili and Kili, so that's likely his son.
"So that's two veterans, one old and old young; one accountant; three college students who don't seem too troublesome or bad; one twenty-something who does; two family men, one with a wife and kid and one with brothers; and one smart business lady. Who am I missing?"
"Two," said Gandalf, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "And then the enterprise itself."
"You and Thorin, then."
"Everything you think you can guess about me," drawled the old man with an edge of seriousness, "will be wrong, I can assure you.
Bilbo took a breath. "Fine, then. Thorin …he's mysterious. He speaks little, but when he does, it commands a room. Everyone stops and looks to him. He's obviously their leader. He dresses exceptionally well, so upper-class background, likely from London based on his accent. Except…" Bilbo furrowed his brow.
"Except?"
"I don't know. His voice…it has foreign undertones, but there's a roughness when he says certain things. So born in Germany or Eastern Europe, maybe, and raised in England. I'd also say he's a businessman who went to boarding school and Oxford and the like, given that he flaunts his poshness like a military standard (dunno why I thought military standard there, but whatever). But…his hands."
"His hands?"
"They're…tough, calloused. And so is his face; he has a scar over his right eyebrow, and wrinkles all over, and beneath his suit you can just tell he's built. Businessmen are softer than him, softer everywhere, so unless he's the head of the Mafia, I doubt he's -" Bilbo almost cut off his own tongue as his jaw snapped shut. Every part of him went cold. Oh fuck. Oh shit shit shit motherfucking fuck.
"Bilbo?" Gandalf raised an eyebrow at him in concern.
Bilbo was too busy remembering how to breathe. Oh dear God. Oh fucking hell, and I just- Oh fucking Christ on a fucking biscuit.
"Have you figured it out?"
That explained it. It explained everything: the families, the fucking rhyming names, the fact that so few seemed like criminals but were all here anyway, joking around with each other because fuckin'-a they were all in the same goddamned family. The drawn blinds, the $50 bribe, the icy eyes, the leather-bound 'Life Story of Bilbo Baggins'. It all made sense now. Cold, terrifying sense.
"Mafia," Bilbo breathed out, his hands trembling like charged wires.
Gandalf smiled at him. His head shook…from side to side. "Not quite."
"Then fucking what?!" roared Bilbo. "I'm tired of this fucking game! I'm tired of getting jerked around and shitting my pants about all this! What the hell is going on?! Ocean's Fourteen: the Musical?!"
"That's a bit closer."
Bilbo almost fell off the couch. There, standing at the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, was the entire goddamn party.
All thirteen pairs of eyes were fixed on him.
Fuck. Everything.
Notes:
Bet y'all forgot about this story, or thought I forgot.
Y'all wrong, wrong I tell you! (and sorry for abandoning this for 8 months •.•)
Also whoops I pulled a PJ and made this scene overly long. Welp.
Everything else will be explained in the next chapter. Mostly. Have to keep some surprises, you know.
Thanks for reading!