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Love Thy Neighbour

III

Thorin had had his hair cut.

It wasn't something particularly unusual or remarkable, but it still blindsided him slightly when he noticed.

He blamed it on the hug, because after all, Thorin hugged him and though his surly neighbour wasn't quite so surly towards him anymore, he definitely wasn't the hugging type; in Bilbo's mind at least.

Helpfully, his mind conjured up brief flashes of other situations in which he could feel those warm arms around him again and he was eternally grateful that he was at that moment pressed against Thorin's chest so the man could not see his heated face.

Then he awkwardly complimented his new hair and he knew his face was flaming and hoped desperately that Thorin was just tipsy enough not to notice.

Or in fact notice that he was staring because really, the long hair had not done him justice and now, shorter it only served to accentuate just how nice a face the man had been blessed with; all strong nose and sharp cheeks and piercing blue eyes that had no effect on Bilbo's mental processes whatsoever.

He really didn't know what had come over him.

Quickly, he trained the celebratory glass of prosecco Bofur had given him, pointedly ignoring his friend's knowing look.

"I know you said you two were friendly now-" he began teasingly, only to be cut off by Bilbo's glare.

"Bofur, finish that sentence and God help me I will shove that hat of yours so far down your throat you shit it out."

Bofur tutted as he refilled his glass, "I wasn't going to say anything rude my dear Bilbo."

He fixed his friend with his infamous nonplussed look.

"Indeed not," Bofur continued, his expression far too innocent for Bilbo's tastes, "And if your mind went down that path, well that just screams of your own depravity."

Bilbo scowled at the fact that he couldn't reasonably argue as such thoughts had occurred to him and also because he knew he was blushing furiously.

Then he smoothed out his features and decided to feign ignorance instead.

"I have no idea what on earth you're talking about," he sniffed. As soon as Bofur placed the refilled wine glass before him, he gulped it down.

"So you mean to say you've never thought about it?"

Bofur seriously just waggled his eyebrows at him, didn't he?

"Of course I have!" he heard himself cry, before he could stop himself and think about what he was saying. "I'm not blind!"

He froze. Somehow, saying those words aloud hit home. When they were unnamed thoughts running through his head, he could ignore them, refuse to acknowledge their meaning. But putting words to things, letting them out in the open, it made them real. And what had long been a niggling, neglected thought in his mind now had a name and could no longer be denied.

He, Bilbo Baggins, was attracted to Thorin Oakenshield.

Shit.

Bofur, it appeared, had a smirk that seemed to grow alongside Bilbo's dawning realisation.

"I'm not surprised," he chuckled. "He is quite the delicious piece of man meat."

He snorted, but did not argue, rather he patted his friend's hand fondly.

"Bofur, don't ever stop being ridiculous."

They spent the rest of the night talking, discussing first the exciting prospect of a Wardens of Rhûn film and then, when Bofur was relieved of his bar duty, the conversation derailed into the realm of cheerful idiocy, as most conversations, particularly those fueled by alcohol, did when they involved Bofur.

Whilst they were still at the bar, Dwalin came over for the next round of drinks, giving Bilbo a hearty pat on the shoulder. Bilbo tried not to wince. Much to his chagrin, the man still insisted on calling him 'laddie' and ignored Bilbo when he categorically stated that he was not, in fact, a child.

By the time he stumbled home, it was much too late and he was much too tipsy considering his journey to Little Bagshot the following day.

And so it was, as he boarded the train for Gloucester, he winced at the too-loud shouts of a young child and wanted nothing more than to be in his bed, avoiding the light.

He was much too old for this; he forgot that he could not recover from an unexpected night of drinking quite so well as he did in his twenties, or indeed could intake as large a volume.

He dozed for the duration of the journey, closing his eyes to the bright daylight and allowing his throbbing head to mourn the loss of its brain cells.


The welcoming sight of Bag-End was just as it always was.

His cousin Drogo picked him up at the station and Bilbo allowed him to recount all the Little Bagshot gossip from while he was away. He had not been since last Christmas, so there was a lot to catch up on; for a small village, life there was certainly never dull. Also, he felt rather uninclined to talk at that moment.

One of his distant cousins, Angelica Baggins had apparently gotten her nose done.

"Looks much too silly Bilbo, now her nose is too small for her face."

His dear friend Hamfast and his wife Bell had just announced that they were to have a fifth child.

"Honestly, I don't know how they do it. Reproduce faster than rabbits, do the Gamgees."

Drogo's sister Dora had taken up the position of Agony Aunt on the village newspaper.

"There's no point, everyone knows everyone's business anyway but that girl has opinions on everything and does not care whether you wish to hear them or not."

Saradoc had finally plucked up the courage to ask Esmeralda on a date three weeks beforehand.

"It only took, what? Ten years since he realised he liked her?And that itself took ten years. Let's hope if he proposes he's somewhat more speedy about it."

Gorbadoc had thrown another spectacular summer solstice party at Brandy Hall.

"Oh you should have seen the buffet Bilbo. And the dancing. I had the most terrible hangover the following day, even worse than yours is."

Bilbo glared at him for that one. There were just pulling up the drive to Bag-End as Drogo was finishing recounting the tale of how Lobelia had shamed herself in an attempted coup of the Women's Institute. He realised he should probably not derive so much pleasure from her misfortune, but she was an unpleasant person.

His grin widened as he saw the familiar green front door, Primula waiting for them on the doorstep, waving with one hand, the other resting on her swollen stomach, a fresh glow to her pretty face.

He elbowed Drogo lightly, "You kept that quiet, you sly dog."

His cousin beamed, his blue eyes fixed on his wife, "Four months gone. Sometime in January, so if you…?" He trailed off, not quite sure exactly how to ask what he wanted to.

"Of course I'll come up for it."

They shared a smile as they got out of the car, Bilbo rushing over to greet Primula whilst Drogo fetched his bag.

"My dear Bilbo!" she trapped him in a fierce hug, forcing all the air out of his lungs. "It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," he wheezed.

Releasing him, she didn't look apologetic in the slightest and she bundled him inside with no regard for his delicate state.

"Don't be such a baby," she chastised when he dared complain. "We used to drink far more."

Bilbo smiled at the memory of he and his friends as teenagers, sitting out on the Green Fields with alcohol stolen from their parents' liquor cabinets. That that was twenty years ago made him suddenly feel old.

"And bear it far better than we do in our old age," Drogo commented from behind them. "Though we were much too ridiculous back then. All of us."

Primula snorted.

"Remember that summer before you went off to uni? When Saradoc nearly punched you because he thought you liked Esmeralda?"

Bilbo chuckled, "Yes and he'd gotten quite the wrong end of the stick. I had quite the hopeless crush on him back then."

"The fact that you'd already come out at that point was irrelevant," Drogo added dryly, then chuckled to himself. "Oh do you remember that?"

Bilbo and Primula laughed as well.

"No-one here's going to forget that in a while. That was the nineties: no-one had come out by then and no-one did so quite so brazenly for a long time after."

"Well they were harping on at me about you, Prim dear. Remember when everyone used to think you and I were destined to be?"

"And no-one believed us when we said we were just friends?"

"To be fair," Drogo chimed, "Sara and Esme tried that one as well. And I remember being fully convinced you two were an item and being quite jealous of it."

By now, they had gathered in the airy kitchen and Bilbo and Primula sat at the table while Drogo prepared a pot of tea. Primula smiled at her husband fondly and Bilbo ignored his own brief stab of jealousy; most of his school friends were settling down now and his hopes of doing so before forty were becoming ever more wistful.

"Lobelia was the one that provoked it, if I recall," Bilbo said. "But then she provokes nearly everything."

"She was trying to imply you should be ashamed of me!" Primula exclaimed, huffily. "But then you just stood up on your chair and were like 'Class, I would like to make an announcement...'"

"'...Primula is my dear friend,'" Bilbo carried on, the words returning to him easily. "'But I must declare that she and I will never be, largely because she lacks something I desire in a partner…'"

"'...That something being a penis,'" Drogo finished effortlessly and then they all descended into laughter.

Drogo brought the pot of herbal tea over and once it was served, the three passed the rest of the afternoon reminiscing on the antics of their younger days (and some of their more recent days when they were all gathered in Little Bagshot). There would be time for a proper reunion later in his stay, Primula said; there was due to be a big party for the August Bank Holiday on the village green as there was every year. It was always the highlight of his summers at Bag-End House, the loud festivities a contrast to his quiet times ensconced in his father's old study, sometimes scrawling out pages upon pages of his stories and sometimes pacing as he worked through a plot point in his head.

It was in one such moment, about a week into his stay that Prim popped her head around the door, a smirk far too mischievous for his liking curling on her lips.

"There's a man on the phone for you."

Bilbo sighed, it as probably Bofur. He did not touch his phone during the days he spent writing and Nori knew not to contact him during those days anyway. Bofur was the only one who had the number, but it was supposed to be for emergencies.

He did not worry too much, every year Bofur rang, usually to ask something like 'What's a petunia again?'

He took the handset from his friend, sitting down on the small armchair next to the house phone.

"Hello?"

"Bilbo?"

The deep, rumbling voice was a shock to his ears - definitely not Bofur - and he frowned slightly in confusion.

"Thorin? Why are you calling me?"

"You gave me this number before you left, remember? 'For emergencies' you said."

His tone was dripping in amusement, so Bilbo decided not to worry as Thorin would otherwise have sounded a lot less collected.

"So I did."

"Anyway," Thorin continued, "I was actually ringing on behalf of my sister."

"Your sister?"

"Yes, she wanted me to thank you for giving the boys the book. She said she's never had the house so quiet during the summer break for a long while."

Bilbo chuckled, "That I can imagine."

"I would expect a phone call from them soon, when I spoke to Dís earlier today Fíli was apparently almost done with it."

"Well I'll look forward to that," Bilbo said kindly. He poked his tongue out at Primula when she poked her head back into the room and gave him a salacious wink.

They exchanged idle chatter for a few moments more until Bilbo's passing comment about his book made Thorin panic slightly.

"Oh I'm keeping you from your writing!"

"Not at all," Bilbo said when he realised Thorin couldn't see him shaking his head. "In fact Prim keeps lecturing me about being a hermit, spending all my time in the study."

At the sound of Thorin's deep chuckle, he could not help his own grin.

"Prim is your cousin's wife, the one who's your good friend?"

Bilbo smiled wider, he'd told Thorin about Prim and Drogo when he'd mentioned that he was coming away, but that he actually remembered… Well Bilbo didn't want to think on the implications of why that made him quite so happy.

"Prim was probably my closest friend growing up. Closest thing to a sister I've ever had."

"In some ways, I'm lucky I have Dís, and then in many others I curse that we are related, usually when it involves scolding me."

"She sounds like a wise woman."

Thorin made a sound of protest but then began to talk a bit about his sister in a mix of compliments and insults, though each was suffused with an affection and warmth that made Bilbo smile, Bilbo himself chiming in with tidbits about himself and Primula. After a while, he decided once again that he was wasting Bilbo's time and despite Bilbo's protests to the contrary, their phone-call ended.

He drifted towards the study and paused in the doorway, then, deciding that he could finish for the day, promptly turned back around and headed for the kitchen.

Primula was there but said nothing, though her teasing grin warned that she would have something to say later.


Later came just after lunch the following day, whilst Drogo had gone out to clean their car, leaving Prim and Bilbo to clean the dishes.

"So," she began, much too nonchalantly for Bilbo's tastes, "Who was that gentleman who called?"

Bilbo turned his attention to scrubbing yesterday's carbonara pan a little too intensely, hoping Primula wouldn't notice his crimson cheeks. Fortunately, for there was no way she had not seen them, she chose not to comment (the teasing would probably come later, when she'd wheedled more information out of him).

"That was just Thorin," he replied, attempting her casual tone. "My next door neighbour."

He placed the clean pan in the dishrack and caught Prim looking at him amusedly, eyebrows raised.

"Isn't he the oh-so frustrating one you dislike? Well you did when we last spoke, not even a month ago. You spent half our call ranting about his rudeness. "

"It wasn't half our call," he muttered under his breath. Louder, Bilbo said, "He is rather gruff on first acquaintance. And the second, and the third. Basically he's just a very rude person, yes."

"But?"

He did not like the way Prim was smirking at him, but there was no way around it, she would just bring it up at some other time.

"He can also be nice. And funny. And he has the most adorable nephews, though Fíli would protest if he ever heard me call him that."

She was grinning now and elbowed him playfully. "You like him."

"No I do not!" he protested, much too quickly.

"Yes you do!" she prodded him in the chest accusingly, "You were beaming like an idiot when I poked my head in."

"That doesn't mean anything!"

Before turning back to her dishes, Prim fixed him with a knowing look that was entirely too reminiscent of his mother for comfort.

Neither of them said anymore as they put away all the pots and pans, the silence filled only by their light humming along to the cheerful pop playlist that had been put on. After a much too enthusiastic rendition of 'Don't You Want Me' from his friend, he relaxed, only then realising he had been tense at all. Taking this as a sign the subject was dropped (well for now at least),

he joined her in prancing around the kitchen to 'Mamma Mia', singing very loudly and probably very badly as they prepared the dinner they were having that evening. Acting like an idiot around Prim helped him forget that Lobelia had invited herself around.

He did not understand what his cousin Otho saw in her. She had her moments, but most of the time she was overbearing and ostentatious.

Drogo came in after an hour or so and spent a good few moments laughing at their dance to 'Walk Like an Egyptian' before he too joined in, wiggling his hips as he prepared the filo pastry parcels.

They carried on much that way, laughing, singing and cooking until the clock struck six and Bilbo went off to change, leaving Prim and Drogo to set the table and then follow in his suit.

Not wanting to give Lobelia any room for criticism (even though she was bound to find it anyway), he tamed down his short hair that was just getting long enough to start to curl and chose a light blue shirt with dark grey trousers. Over the top he put his favourite velvet waistcoat, its colour a rich racing green. Stepping back, he admired his choice in the mirror before heading for the wine cellar to fetch the red Drogo had asked for.

The air was cool and still so he rested a moment, absorbing the quiet as a way to steel himself for the coming dinner. His cousin's wife meant well, he knew this, but her manner of speaking was curt and unthinking, it rubbed him the wrong way and sparked his own temper. Though she did have the unfortunate habit in disagreements of talking until the other party submitted rather than admit her own folly.

At dinner though, she and Primula both became involved in a lively debate on the interpretations of Guernica and Bilbo, feeling rather ill-qualified to join in the discussion on art found himself sharing gardening woes with Drogo and Otho. The Sackville-Baggins had moved into the city of Gloucester itself eighteen months ago and his cousin was having trouble adapting to no longer living in the clean, fresh air of the country.

"I don't know how you cope in London Bilbo," Otho cried. "So grey and so many people!"

"I would imagine the greater variety of people in London would suit Bilbo better," Lobelia commented; she and Prim had come to an agreement on several aspects of the painting and had therefore decided to join their conversation. Bilbo did not answer straight away, unsure as to her meaning and his pause gave Lobelia chance to continue talking, "How is your writing coming along? I understand you have a new one coming out before the year's out?"

"Quite well," he said pleasantly. "And yes the third book is out in October."

"There's to be four, right?" Otho asked.

Bilbo nodded. Sometimes he forgot that his pseudonym was an open secret in Little Bagshot; much to the bemusement of outsiders the small corner shop ran by Old Rory Brandybuck stocked several copies of the Wardens series, displayed proudly on the till next to the large tub of traffic-light lollipops.

"What are you going to do with yourself when you finish?"

He shrugged, "I hadn't really considered it."

If it paid off, he would hopefully be working on the films, but that wasn't a sure thing. He could always write more, he supposed, there were normally a few ideas flitting about his head, though that had been before he had devoted his time to this one endeavour.

"Maybe you should find someone," Lobelia's voice cut across his thoughts, "You're not getting any younger."

"Perhaps," Primula piped up, stopping Bilbo before he could work himself up into a rage, "But such a thing is not necessary to happiness."

"But to live alone," she sounded as if the idea personally offended her.

"I may be the only one in my flat, Lobelia," he replied, doing his best to suppress the irritation fighting to enter his tone. "But I am friends with many people in the same building as me. In that sense, I am not alone."

Lobelia huffed, but strangely did not pursue the topic any further; her marriage to Otho seemed to have mellowed he somewhat in recent years.

The rest of dinner passed without incident and soon Bilbo found himself in the warm embrace of his bed, his head in a light haze from the wine and he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.


In the early days of the following week, he received an incensed phone-call.

"You killed Beren!" Kíli cried in lieu of a greeting.

"Hello Kíli," he responded, a smile touching at his lips.

"And Fíli," came the deeper voice of the elder brother. "And I can't believe you did that either."

"But he died protecting Lúthien, is that not noble?"

"Lúthien doesn't need protecting, she's actually stronger than him."

Bilbo grinned, "Not always, and remember Beren is rarely logical when it comes to her."

"Love is stupid," Kíli huffed, "It makes people go all weird. I hope I never meet someone who makes me act that dumb."

Fíli snorted, "Like you need any help."

There was what sounded like a brief scuffle on the other end of the line, it stopped when Bilbo spoke again.

"So what did you guys think of Elladan and Elrohir?"

"They're awesome!" Kíli enthused, "Though Fíli thinks Elladan is better just because he beat Eärendil but Elrohir is clearly better - he's a Fire Warden!"

"Elrohir is the stronger and he does have the advantage over his brother," Bilbo conceded, "But-" he added, speaking over Kíli's crows of triumph "-Elladan is in far better control of his powers and employs greater tactical skills, something Eärendil needs - he is in Imladris for training after all."

"That was what I was trying to say," Fíli said proudly, "Elrohir is too reckless."

"How is the new book coming along?" Kíli asked, clearly wanting to avoid the rest of his losing battle.

"I'm almost halfway through already, I think, probably more like a third."

"It must be quite strange, having the end of all this in sight," Fíli mused.

Bilbo laughed lightly, "Yes, it's been such a big part of my life these past ten years at least."

"Are you going to write more though?"

"Of course Kíli," he said. "And if I see you boys soon, I may let you read the rough draft of the first chapter. I say rough because I have terrible handwriting."

Kíli let out a sound something akin to a squeal.

"That'd be pretty cool," Fíli replied, his excitement thinly veiled by his nonchalant tone.

He was fairly certain he shouldn't have developed such a soft spot for Thorin's nephews already, but they were quite charming and he found he couldn't suppress his warm fondness for them, even if he'd wished to.


A pleasant breeze danced through the air of the warm August evening. Almost everyone in Little Bagshot had already gathered upon the green, half in the shade of the large oak affectionately called the Party Tree. The hum of conversation was occasionally drowned out by general shouts of merriment. Leaning back on his deckchair, Bilbo was content just to savour the moment as their friends carried on a conversation around him.

It was the Sunday of the Bank Holiday weekend and with him heading back home to London on Tuesday, he intended to enjoy the evening to its fullest. His time at Bag-End had been productive and he always loved time spent with Prim and Drogo, but he had been gone about a month and at odd moments he found himself missing the constant noise of the capital. Much as he dreaded the notion when he moved there, London had become his home now as well and he did miss it when he was gone.

It was an odd notion, he supposed, having two homes at once.

"We have an announcement," Esmeralda stated after a lull in the conversation. Bilbo lazily opened one eye to where she and Saradoc were sat on a picnic blanket, hands clasped and looking almost nervously at Prim, Drogo and himself. It was just the five of them there that night (their other friend from their group growing up, Tolman, was away visiting his mother in Sweden with his girlfriend Lily), and they had arranged themselves almost into a circle, around a cooler filled with drinks, just out of the shadow of the huge tree.

Esme and Sara exchanged a brief look with one another before she extended her left hand.

Upon it was an elegant diamond ring.

Prim let out a strange garbled noise.

Drogo squealed.

Bilbo felt himself laugh, "And we were worried you'd take another ten years."

Sara shrugged and ran a hand through his messy auburn hair, "I figured I already wasted enough time. And really, was I ever going to marry anyone other than Esme?"

"I wouldn't have let you," his fiancee muttered.

"Well we're all very happy for you both," Drogo offered sincerely.

And as he watched his two friends so blissful in having finally found one another, he couldn't help but feel a small pang of loneliness that he quickly quashed in favour of happier thoughts.

His life was fulfilling and his friends were all truly blessed. It would not do to be petty, even if he had given up on finding someone before his fortieth.

Glancing around, he regarded them all warmly; he loved them dearly and to see them happy, that was enough for him.

But if that night, as he lay back in his empty bed, his dreams were filled with deep, melodious words, hope, and images of the bluest of eyes, well, he chose not to dwell on it, or consider it just yet.

The hope, however, lingered far beyond him stepping through the glass doors or Arda Court and seeing that impossible blue once more.