A/N: This one is sappy and fluffy, and very demure. Couple more, maybe three, probably rather smutty (I feel they do need to christen the bed in the Bag End:), and this story will be over! Enjoy!

When you arrive at the door of Master Bilbo Baggins, it is late and dark, and you are grateful that you are wrapped in several cloaks. The March air is cold, and a sharp wind is picking up. You predict a stormy night. The more inviting it makes the warm light in the two round windows on the sides of the merry green door. You have seen hobbit houses before, but you smile as Mr. Baggins is dwelling in an epitome of the comfort and respectability his race is so fond of. Even in the twilight, you can see that the round door is clean and freshly painted, a neat mailbox, a bench no doubt for enjoying a pipe on a warm Summer evening, and bird feeders are adorning the front lawn.

The King dismounts and helps you down. You give him your hand and in a few decisive strides he walks up the low stone stairs leading to the entrance and gives the door three booming knocks. You hear other Dwarves laughing behind you at some unknown joke, and then the door opens, and the hobbit is presented to your eyes. He is couple inches shorter than you, clad in a bright green velvet jacket. He sees the King and a smile blooms on his face.

"Thorin!" He rushes and hugs the King. You have never before seen anyone taking such liberties with the King Under the Mountain, and you are even more surprised when the embrace is returned with fervour, Thorin clapping his hand on the hobbit's back. "Master Baggins," the King's voice rumbles warmly and he steps back, open gleeful smile on his face. "Allow me to present my Queen, Lady Zundushinh," the hobbit turns to you and the bright grey eyes widen. You smile and give him your hand, "Be so kind and call me Wren, Master Baggins. I am still not used to the titles the King has awarded me with." The hobbit takes your hand, and you give his a vigorous shake.

It seems to stir him out of his stupour, and he gives you a low bow. "At your service, my lady." Then he hastily steps back. "Please, please, do come in, I have just put the kettle on," you follow the King inside and at that moment other Dwarves are finally by the door. A loud happy roar erupts, and the hobbit is swept into Bofur's bear hug. Others join, clapping Master Baggins on the back, everyone talking at the same time. They comment on the golden buttons on the waistcoat, on the allegedly rounder waist, on the still lacking beard. The muttering hobbit is towed in the hall, and you hear the King chuckle. You are looking around, while the King is helping you with your cloak.

The hall with the splendid carpet on the floor, chairs and chests cluttering but not spoiling the passage, everything is cozy and taken care of. The King hangs your cloak on a peg and turns to the increasingly disheveled hobbit. The Dwarves are still talking loudly, and he has to raise his voice, "Master Baggins, how is that kettle coming along?" The hobbit jumps up and starts mumbling, "Where are my manners indeed? Please, please, do come in. I believe you know the way," everyone scramble in a dining room with a crackling fire, and Thorin moves a chair for you. Master Baggins dashes to the pantries, and thus the feast begins.

Chickens, cheese, rolls and buns, cakes, jam, scones with butter, mugs with beer and tea for you, a bit of wine and a lot of salad, the food is passed around the table, conversation loud and merry, and you throw an occasional glimpse at the hobbit. More often than not you are met with a no less cautious stare from him. When caught, he makes a funny motion with his nose and looks at the ceiling. He is immensely entertaining, and you feel very curious. One thing is endlessly unclear. How did it ever happen that he agreed on an adventure with thirteen Dwarves and a wizard that involved travelling through half of the world, a dragon and apparently no handkerchief?

He seems as ordinary of a hobbit as any you have met before. The same solid and respectable character, slight peevishness, healthy appetite and yet, there he is, reminiscing of the travels and sword fights, asking after his battle comrades, recollecting Mirkwood and Erebor. You eat and drink, then everyone moves into a sitting room, with another cozy fireplace, and the musical instruments are taken out. The King's velvet voice is enveloping you, and you do not notice how you drift away.

You wake up in one of the best beds you have ever slept in and stretch. You are only dressed in your drawers and an undertunic. You smirk at your King's proficiency in divesting you of your clothes, undoubtedly acquired over the years. You find an adjoint bathroom, and after a quick rinse you put on fresh clothes. You take a bit longer in front of a mirror, surveying your profile, trying to see any difference. Your stomach seems as flat as it was before, and you sigh.

The noise of eight Dwarves and a hobbit definitely comes from one of the sitting rooms, and you assume it is elevenses time. The delicious smell of seed cake and scones is tickling your nose, and your feet carry you faster.

After the prolonged meal the company spreads around the Bag End, chatting and still chewing some of the hobbit's delicacies. He is inconspicuously trying to avoid crumbs on the carpets and dashes between them with saucers and napkins. His efforts are fruitless. You curl up in a large soft armchair and cannot hold back a yawn.

"Are you somnolent, my Queen?" the King is circling the chair and stops in front of you. "The gloomy weather seems to make me so." You smile. "And perhaps all this savoury food. No wonder hobbits never want to move anywhere, a stomach full of their cakes makes you as lazy as a snake on a sunny patch of a swamp." He gives you a small warm smile. "Except our gracious host, apparently. He crossed the world with you, my melhekh." "It was not me whom he was following..."

"It was that mad old wizard," you hear the hobbit's voice from the entrance to the room. You peek from behind the side of the chair. He is smiling and still manages to look a bit grumpy. You motion him to a chair in front of you. He settles, bobbing on it several times, adjusting the cushions underneath him, and yet again you wonder what compelled him all those years ago to pack his bag and join the Dwarves' quest.

The King is standing and his eyes survey the hobbit. "How are you faring, my friend?" "Quite alright, quite alright, Thorin. I lost all respect from my neighbours and my house was almost auctioned while I was gone, but otherwise quite alright." "It was eleven years ago, Master Baggins," the King smirks. "And I still haven't gotten some of my silver spoons back." "I am certain whatever you brought back, my friend, has covered your expenses," a glint of mischievous smile is hiding in your King's eyes.

You lift your eyes and see short Elven blade hung above the mantel. "Is that the Sting, Master Baggins?" "Indeed it is," he gets up and takes it off. He caresses the blade and the hilt with his fingertips. "Would you be so generous…?" You stretch your hand and he glances at the King. The corner of Thorin's lips twitch, but he is still and quiet. He knows better than attempting to show any authority over such actions of yours. The cold grip lies on your hand, and you lunge in a mocking attack and thrust the blade. The hobbit jumps up and squeaks. The King guffaws.

"It is a fine sword, Master Baggins," you return it in his hands and he is staring at you. "I was informed it is most likely a letter opener," he sounds peevish. "A letter opener would not slay a great spider in Greenwood the Great. You do remember the Spawn of Ungoliant, don't you Master Hobbit?" He shivers and a comical disgust contorts his face. "Nasty business that was," he takes out his pipe and starts filling it. The comfortable silence stretches, and you are looking at the flames in the fire.

The white flavourful smell fills the room, and suddenly a wave of nausea overcomes you. You rush in the nearest bathroom and lose all the food you so joyfully consumed. You are panting and sink on the floor. Well, that was to be expected. Something was bound to cause aversion. The smoke indeed was thick and sweet smelling. You cringe. The scent will be hard to forget.

You rinse your mouth and refresh your face. You come back to the sitting room and see that the window is open, and the hobbit is running around the room waving a large sheet of parchment, trying to clear the air. The King is sitting in his chair, tapping his foot, troubled. He jumps up when you enter. "I am alright, my Lord. The dizziness is gone. And Master Baggins, please, I apologise for the disturbance." "Nothing, nothing to apologise for, my lady, I should have asked, so used to it, haven't even realized," he is still dashing around the room, the white sheet flailing. "I beg you, Master Baggins, please be seated." All three of you settle down again. The hobbit moves a small stool for himself and seems rather uncomfortable perched up on its hard seat.

"Bungo," he suddenly utters. "Pardon?" He has an innocent expression on his face. "Bungo, my father's name. A very respectable name I have to tell you. In case you are looking for names," you gasp and stare at him. His face is schooled in a neutral expression, but he is definitely trying very hard to keep a grin down. "I am not naming an heir of the throne of Durin Bungo." The King is also pressing his lips together in a futile attempt to confine a smile. "Just a thought," the hobbit gives you a sideways glance and you start laughing.

"You are quite something, aren't you Master Baggins?" "Please, call me Bilbo." You stretch your hand and he gently presses your fingers. The King pats your shoulder and leaves the room. You hear him addressing Balin in the corridor. You lean back in the chair and stare at the fire again. The hobbit moves to the opposite armchair and you feel his eyes on you.

"We are quite a pair, aren't we Master Baggins?" You look into the sharp grey eyes, "A hobbit and a woman of Men in the company of Thorin Oakenshield." He hums in agreement. Suddenly he says, "When I was leaving Hobbiton, Gandalf the Grey told me that I would never be the same again. And he was right. But I returned to where I belonged, and though I have changed, I still feel that this is my place." You smile and he continues. "When the Battle of the Five Armies was over they brought me to the King Under the Mountain," his face darkens. You do not know everything that transpired before the battle but you suspect that neither of the two men likes to think about the conflict between them, "they were certain he would not live." You nod and think of the white scar on the King's side, under the eighth rib. A thick Orc arrow pierced his body and out of all the wounds he received that day that one was bound to be mortal. An irrational fear still chills your spine when you touch it after all these years. Then you press your cheek into the warm skin and repeat to yourself over and over again that he lived, and he is here, and he is with you.

"And then he recovered and Erebor was theirs finally," the more joyful memories return to the hobbit. "And they were feasting for months, I do not how I survived, and I'm a hobbit, and we are jolly fond of food and good ale, my lady." You chuckle. "But the burden was still there. The city to rebuild, the Kingdom to restore, no time to enjoy his home," he is self-consciously rubbing his thumbs on the undersides of his braces, "I supposed he just felt that he had to rise to the glory of his grandfather and father… But that is no way to live, you know…" He is suddenly bashful and shifting in his chair. You lift your brows encouragingly. "One cannot carry the responsibility for so many." You smile sadly. "One has to if one is a King." He nods solemnly but then his face lights up. "It is good to see him happy at last. Lighter, less weighed down," he peeks you from under his curly bangs. "Are you giving me your blessing, Master Hobbit?"

He blushes and clears his throat uncomfortably. You laugh and straighten up in your chair, "I am honoured to finally have met you, Master Hobbit." He blushes even more furiously and mumbles, "The honour is all mine, my lady."

The day passes in lazy conversations and more food. You try to avoid the smoke ever clouding around the Dwarves as you have prohibited the King of stopping his companions from smoking. You feel you would have to provide an explanation for such a sudden and drastic demand, and you just choose to take a small walk. The weather is bleak but the night rain stopped. Balin offers his companionship, and you gladly accept it.

He seems preoccupied and you ask of his frowned face and silence. "Allow me some liberty to inquire of your health, my lady," he gives you an acute sideways glance. "I am quite well, Master Balin." "Are you content with you life in Erebor, then, my lady?" You suspect that the Dwarf is under some erroneous impression that you are distressed. "Indeed I am, Master Balin." "With the upcoming celebrations I presume you must be rather engaged and somewhat weary." Apparently, the poor Dwarf is trying to delicately ask you if you are bedraggled from the wedding preparations, and distraught and apprehensive regarding your future role as the Queen. "I am immensely contented these days, my dear sir." He sighs and stops.

Picking up your hand, he decides on a more direct approach. "I have noticed a certain pensiveness in you, my lady. And you seem more delicate these days, the stop on the road, longer sleep," he coughs in uneasiness, "please, do not condemn an old Dwarf for worrying..." You place a hand on his forearm and smile. "Master Balin, I am grateful for your concern, it warms up my heart," he peers at you. And suddenly you cannot control an urge. You are certain that the King will forgive you for it.

"I am well and happy, my dear sir, quite more than ever before, to be honest. The only thing delicate these days is my position," you bite your lip and wait. He frowns and then gasps and step back. "Oh my..." His eyes are shining, and he grabs your hands with a swiftness that always surprises you in the old warrior. "That is the happiest of news!" You smile to each other and on impulse you lean in and kiss a bearded cheek. He blushes and looks endlessly pleased. "No wonder the King demanded to return to Erebor tomorrow at dawn." That despot!