A/N: Third chapter! I don't really know how to feel about this one either; thanks to all the feedback I received, though! It definitely helped me wrestle this one into submission. Again, cross-posted on AO3.
Thorin Oakenshield did not surprise easily. When one is next in line for the throne, it becomes necessary to prepare for many different occurrences; strategy classes, besides teaching war, taught planning and more importantly, rolling with the unexpected until it's not quite so unexpected any more.
Which, of course, made his momentary speechlessness upon properly standing up, dusting himself off, and seeing his host and, apparently, potential Burglar of his company, all that more unusual. His appearance was unusual enough, but if that was all it took to give Thorin pause, he would have been quite tongue-tied indeed every time he walked through Ered Luin.
No, what surprised Thorin were the hobbit's eyes. Besides being rather large and unnervingly colored, they looked older than what looked at back at Thorin in the mirror every morning. They were the eyes that had sat in Dwalin's face after he had lost both Fundin and Vitr and his fight, before Thorin had slapped some sense into him in return for all the time that Dwalin had done the same for Thorin.
They were also narrowed in a rather impressively menacing glare for a member of a race whose most remarkable achievement seemed to be growing pumpkins larger than their own bodies.
Thorin cleared his throat, and bowing to an acceptable depth, said, "Thorin, son of Thrain, at your service." The dwarves most recently on the floor lined up behind him. "And these," he added, gesturing broadly, "are Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, and Dori, Nori, and Ori."
And with that, all seven made their way over to the source of the noise and also the delectable smell, though not forgetting to hang up their hoods on the way.
Bilbo looked down at the mud all over his entryway, up at Gandalf, and sighed.
"If all that is Light wasn't possibly at stake, I should have had you turned out on the front doorstep an hour ago."
And with that, he turned, sticking his thumbs in his suspenders rather self-importantly, and made his way over to the kitchen to make sure no one had found where he had hidden the fine china. Rather bemusedly, Gandalf followed.
It was fortunate that Bilbo entered when he did – or perhaps unfortunate, depending on who one asks.
Despite the new arrivals, the main body of the party had mostly finished eating already, and as Bilbo made his cautious way into the room, surreptitiously wondering if it would be impolite to find a clothespin to clip over his nose, Ori stood up nervously and made his way straight towards the hobbit.
"Excuse me," said the younger, "but I was wondering what I could do with the plates?"
Bilbo was about to answer, as the dwarf was really a paragon of politeness, particularly considering his relatives, when one of the… noisier, and also considerably more immature dwarves snatched the plate from his hand and, with a rather roguish wink at Bilbo (who released a noise that sounded embarrassingly like a balloon letting out air) tossed it straight at his dark-haired brother, nearly nailing Gandalf in the process.
In a matter of seconds, a ridiculous number of plates, bowls, and assorted cutlery were being tossed around like no tomorrow, and though Bilbo could see the dwarves weren't about to drop them, he couldn't stop himself from saying,
"Be careful with that, you'll blunt them!"
Bilbo did not have a good feeling about the wicked grin that overtook the blonde dwarf's face.
And then the singing started.
The amount of coordination displayed was pretty darn impressive, Bilbo would admit. In any other situation, he probably would have enjoyed watching the dwarves perform. As it was, he was far too worried about his plates to properly appreciate the level of skill.
Suffice to say, Bilbo was very close to throwing everyone out, kings or not. Yes, the dwarves had, in the end, cleaned up after themselves, but at the small price of several near heart-attacks.
So he shoved all the dwarves into his parlor, silently apologizing to the upholstery, and headed outside for a quick smoke. When he came back, they were singing again, but this time it was slow and somber.
It took Bilbo a couple more seconds to realize that the song was about their mountain and all that the dwarves had lost, and suddenly, the quest became a bit more important.
"Gandalf," Bilbo whispered, "could you show them to the guest beds? I need to," he fumbled, "pack."
And figure out how to take all his doilies, because they were his mother's, and there was no way he was leaving them behind.
The next morning, Bilbo headed out quite early, a pack over his shoulder and doilies stuffed in his trouser pockets. Hamfast Gamgee looked initially annoyed to be woken at such an inconsiderate time, but as soon as he saw the look on Bilbo's face, he grew serious.
"This," Bilbo said, dropping a key into his palm, "is to Bag End. Take good care of it, won't you?"
And before Hamfast could properly protest or even inquire to what this was all about, Bilbo was pelting down the road back towards Bag End.
"What's happening?" Bell Gamgee yawned, coming to stand next to her husband where he stood staring out the door.
"You know, I'm not entirely sure."
The Shire hummed its quiet green agreement.
Oh, Bilbo was going to kill that dwarf once he caught up to him. He had left for all of half an hour to set his affairs in order, and he returned to find not a sign of any of the company besides the copy of the contract sitting on the table next to a half-eaten apple and a rather skillful ink doodle of one of the dwarves – Kili? – deep in thought.
Which, of course, was why he was now running down the lane as fast as his feet could take him in what he hoped was the correct direction, because presumably they would head for Bree, but neither dwarves or wizards had ever proven very predictable in the past.
He had been running for close to half an hour, half-regretting his long years of retirement and most certainly thanking his physiology for somewhat carrying over in this form in terms of increased muscle mass when he finally caught up to the party, waving the contract like a battered flag. Seated rather unceremoniously on a suddenly skittish pony right behind Thorin Oakenshield himself, he finally realized what exactly it was that had been bothering him all last night.
Thorin smelled like gold and silver, yes, but it was buried under years of labor and mining and stress and blood.
He smelled less like a king and more like a leader.
'All right,' thought Bilbo. 'I can do this.'