"That is perhaps the stupidest—" Dori bent down, sliding a tray of petit fours back into the gleaming glass display, and Bilba didn't bother leaning farther over the counter. Muffled or no, the derision in his tone was thicker than the rich fondant layered artfully over the elegant little cakes. "—maddest, most ill-conceived notion I've heard in ages."
Straightening up again, wiping his hands on the cloth he'd set aside for just such a purpose, Dori levelled her with a withering look, all skeptically arched eyebrows and tightly pursed mouth. After a second or two of that, he let out a sigh, slinging the cloth over his shoulder.
"And I've known Gandalf for nearly thirty years," he said. "So consider the source."
Glancing at her watch— it was already a quarter to seven, bugger— Bilba tamped down the wild fluttering in her stomach and called up the most pleading, wide-eyed expression she had at her disposal.
"Please Dori, if anyone could understand, I thought it would be you." When Dori continued to look entirely unimpressed, Bilba untwisted her fingers from the soft green cotton folds of her skirt, where they had been plucking at the subtle floral pattern in frustration.
"It's not lying," she said, tapping the spotless countertop, where one of the new business cards Gandalf had given her rested. "I am actually an Assistant Director, whatever in the world that means. I don't think it's unreasonable to lead with that, and ease into the notion that I also model. I assume you tell people you own a cafe, don't you? Well, you also sweep the floors and clean the tables."
Technically, Dori had a pair of rather sweet natured students who worked for him part-time, meant to be tending to customers and keeping everything clean while Dori handled greeting the customers, and preparing the food and beverages to his exacting standards. Technically, that was true, but Bilba had seen the man creeping up to buff invisible streaks from a table barely an instant after Arwen had finished wiping it down. And that was nothing compared to the glaring matches between Dori and Legolas regarding the schedule for descaling the machines.
"You do think you're a clever lass." Turning, Dori began straightening a various colourful boxes of tea on the neatly organized shelves behind the counter. There were a few customers scattered throughout the cafe, sipping beverages as they chatted in the lushly upholstered booths and tasteful round tables, but everyone appeared content for the moment; only she and Dori were lingering near the front counter.
"But tell me," Dori said, precisely lining up deep blue boxes of custom blended chamomile. "Which seems like the more attractive option: that this man is really so unobservant that he's never noticed the twenty-foot posters of your derriere gracing the sides of buses, or that he's uninterested in the sight of you in naught but beautiful underthings?"
"For the love of— for me, for one evening, can you please just—"
The small silver bell above the door chimed, and Dori spun neatly on his heel, smoothing down the front of his black half-apron. The subtly false, welcoming smile he managed for most customers shifted almost immediately into a truer, much less pinched expression.
Glancing at the door, Bilba expected to see Ori shuffling in for a caffeine fix, with a slouchy beanie pulled over his shaggy hair (lest Dori insist, without room for argument, that his brother was due for a trim), or perhaps even Gandalf popping by for a plate of blackcurrant macarons and some flirting (which would invariably end with the cafe closing at nine o'clock precisely, and both Gandalf and Dori wearing identical blissful smirks tomorrow). Either option was enough to send an unenthusiastic shiver down her spine— this was a first date, and she wasn't ready to share Thorin quite yet. Having Dori meet him was daunting enough.
What she expected, and what she actually saw, were very different things.
"Ah, Thorin," Dori said, and Bilba blinked owlishly, more than a little stunned. She most definitely had not told Dori her date's name, had barely described him; how was this even bloody possible? "Hello; how are you this evening?"
"I'm good, thanks." No matter how much she blinked, the man stepping inside the shop didn't vanish in a puff of smoke, or resolve into some other bloke Dori would recognize. He stayed stubbornly, perfectly Thorin, from the polished toes of his boots, to the few faint streaks of grey in his thick, dark hair.
Then, of course, he turned those clear blue eyes in her direction, and Bilba felt the corners of her mouth lift almost entirely without her permission.
"Hello," Thorin said, moving to stand just a smidgen less than an arm's length away. There was a lower, warmer pitch weaving through the greeting, and the sound of it made Bilba think of crackling fireplaces and big, purring cats. His attention flickered down the length of her— over her loosely fitted jumper, the scalloped hem of her skirt hanging just to her knees, her tights— but only for a polite instant before returning to her face and staying there. "You look lovely."
"So do you," she meant to say, maybe a bit awkwardly, but by god it was the truth; well-fitted, dark wash jeans and a v-necked pullover in charcoal grey made for an excellent, attractively casual outfit, but it was the jacket that stole the show. The black leather bomber jacket that looked perfectly broken-in and soft as it hugged across his shoulders and his arms.
Well, as it turned out, Mister Sexy Posh Coat wasn't a one trick pony.
She meant to return the compliment, which had sounded so sincere it curled her toes in her loafers, but Dori cut in before she could force the words to scrape past her dry tongue.
"This? Him?" Dori was pointing, actually pointing at Thorin, while his silvery grey eyebrows made a concerted effort to meet his pristinely combed hairline. "This is your date? Thorin Durinson?"'
Bilba couldn't claim she'd actually heard the surname before, but when Thorin didn't immediately voice any objection, she nodded carefully. "Er... yes? Why... you two, I mean... what?"
"He's my cousin," Dori explained, sounding unfairly annoyed by the (admittedly babbling) question, and Bilba pressed a hand against her own cheek, processing that information. A cousin, Dori's cousin (and, presumably, Nori and Ori's as well) in a city of eight million bloody people, for goodness sake.
Coming around the counter, Dori was suddenly, and rather worryingly, all sunshine and roses, where a moment before he had been his usual, somewhat brackish self.
"This is grand," Dori was saying, as he ushered them farther in to the cafe, insistently. "What are the odds, I mean, honestly." Knowing it was pointless to resist, Bilba allowed herself to be shepherded, and Thorin followed along beside her. She felt the lightest touch of fingertips just above the small of her back, and when she glanced up, Thorin was watching her questioningly; she smiled, and the fingers resolved themselves into a broad hand, resting comfortably against her spine.
"And here we are." Sweeping an arm outward, Dori motioned them towards a table that was far enough back for some illusion of privacy in the small cafe. Bilba noted, however, that it had a perfect line of sight from the front counter. "Is there anything I can get you both, or would you rather take some time?"
Thorin actually pulled out her chair for her before settling into his own seat, in a low-key, natural gesture that didn't seem even slightly flashy or put on, while Dori whipped a pair of thin, leather-bound menus from an apron pocket and placed them on the tabletop. Both men were looking at her expectantly, and Bilba found herself needing a moment. Or perhaps a series of moments.
"I'm still deciding," she said, ignoring the slight narrowing of Dori's eyes. Yes, she knew the menu here upside-down and backwards, but no, she wasn't going to rush into her order.
Thorin agreed easily to the delay, and Dori huffed as though the pair of them had deeply disappointed him, leaving them with an ominous: "I'll be back."
"Your cousin," Bilba said, after Dori had vanished off towards the counter, doubtlessly to set up surveillance. Across the table, Thorin was adjusting the drape of his jacket over the back of his chair.
"Second cousin." Seemingly satisfied with how the gorgeous black leather hung, Thorin turned back to her with a tiny shrug. "Once removed. I hadn't seen him in years before I stopped in here for the first time, around a month ago. You two know each other?"
For an instant, every thought in Bilba's head froze. They certainly did know each other— when Gandalf had first hired her, Dori had been recently retired, but he had never been far removed from those early photo shoots. It had been a toss-up, back then, whether he spent more time fussing over her (her posture, her presentation, her expression), or glowering behind Ori's shoulder. It was around that time that the youngest brother Rison had refused some generous scholarships from a few prestigious universities in favour of pursuing photography as his calling, much to the detriment of Dori's blood pressure— Nori still maintained that only Gandalf's offer of an ongoing contract with Gigi's had saved Ori's life after that debacle.
But she certainly didn't want to tell Thorin that.
"What am I saying," Thorin continued after a pause that felt a hundred years long to Bilba's racing mind, and his vaguely amused expression seemed entirely unaware of the maelstrom he'd just unleashed. "Of course you do. You did say this was your favourite cafe."
Oh god, yes, she had said that.
"It is," she chirped, her voice too high, then took a breath. "Dori does the most amazing blends of tea." Reaching out, she dragged a menu over to distract herself from staring; the warm-toned, muted light was very flattering, and Thorin had a sort of intensity that would have been all too easy to get caught up in.
"Bilba." A finger, thick and blunted but also quite long, curled around one edge of her menu. She forced herself to look up again, only to find a small furrow of concern wrinkling Thorin's forehead, and a frown gracing his lips. "You don't... is something wrong?"
"No!" The menu dropped to the tabletop, and her hand wrapped around his; his skin was very warm and rougher than her own, but any callused she felt were smooth. Instead of pulling away, Thorin closed his fingers gently, his thumb resting on her knuckles, and he stayed quiet as she fumbled for the rest of her answer.
"Nothing's wrong." There was a hint of heat tickling up her neck, and Bilba hoped the soft lighting managed to mask her no-doubt splotchy blush at least somewhat. "It's just... I haven't been on a date in ages, I feel entirely out of practice, and for god's sake don't tell him this, but Dori likes to think he's my father." She cut a very quick glance over towards the counter. "When he's more like an impossibly snoopy uncle peering at us from behind a jar of biscotti."
"We could go somewhere else," Thorin offered, carefully, and Bilba felt a foolish rush of relief even as she shook her head.
"No, no that would actually hurt his feelings, quite a lot. And I'd rather stay, regardless." Thorin didn't seem entirely convinced, the corners of his mouth still turned down; Bilba squeezed his fingers. "Honestly, I'd rather stay. Dori is a dear friend, even if he drives me mad on occasion, and he brews the most astonishing rooibos chai."
"All right." His expression slowly lightening again, Thorin sat back in his chair, though he kept his arm stretched out across the small table, and his hand resting loosely in her grip. "Since we're being so honest, I feel I should admit I've no idea what a rooey bose chy actually is. I'm assuming some sort of beverage."
"Oh my lord," Bilba said, her voice heavy with mock disappointment. "You're a coffee man."
"I work ten and a half hour shifts," Thorin explained, picking up his own menu with his other hand. "On my shorter days. Of course I'm a coffee man."
"You're a firefighter." Granted, blurting that out wasn't the smoothest segue imaginable, but Bilba had already admitted to being a bit rusty at this dating thing. Surely that had to count for something.
Thorin chuckled, which wasn't a bad reaction at all. "I am, yes. And you, Ms Baggins, are a burglar."
It was an unexpected accusation, but Bilba caught on immediately— her unintentional thief of the first sexy coat— and was startled into a louder laugh than she'd meant to let loose.
"Hold on, now," she said around her laughter. "It was a loan, if you'll recall, and you never specified the length of the lending period. And, and, on top of that, I've brought it with me tonight so you can have it back. Hardly a burgle, by any definition."
"Semantics, but fine. As you like." Dipping his head, Thorin kept a slight, crooked smile, even as Arwen appeared beside them, her dark hair wound in a thick fishtail braid over one shoulder, and an order pad and pencil ready in her hands.
"Hello," the young woman said, beaming sweetly at Bilba; if anyone were to guess which of the pair of them was the model, Bilba fully expected Arwen would be chosen ninety-nine out of a hundred times. Tall and well-proportioned, with flawless skin and fantastic bone structure, Arwen would have been a dream come true for most modelling agencies (and given that her family were old friends with the triumvirate of Istari Incorporated, she would have already had a foot in the door), but apparently she was quite content reading political science at uni, and floating around The Silver Platter in her skinny jeans, serving tea.
"What can I get you—" Arwen began to say, only to be interrupted by Dori swooping in like a hawk, not quite bumping Arwen aside with his hip.
"I'll handle this table, Arwen, dear." Dori's shooing motions were not the sort of thing a wise person ignored, and Arwen beat a hasty retreat, shooting Bilba a final confused look before trotting off to question another patron about something or other.
"All right, then." Dori didn't bother with even the pretence of jotting anything down on a pad, and never had, as far as Bilba knew. Every order was invariably correct, regardless. "Have you decided?"
She had a chai with cinnamon bark, ginger, and hints of cocoa, while Thorin did indeed order a large black coffee (with four sugars, which she proceeded to call coffee cake in a cup when he gave her fragrant, milky chai the side-eye). It didn't take a great deal of coaxing to convince Thorin to try a taste of her tea, which he proceeded to describe as not entirely bad, maintaining a perfectly flat pokerface that sent her giggling into her hand.
Even with Dori lurking in the wings (apparently unsure which of them was most deserving of his heavy, monitory stares), it was a very comfortable hour or so of chatting, a fair amount of laughter and flirting, and their free hands lingering on the tabletop, brushing loosely together and apart in a strange, undiscussed intimacy.
It was nearly eight-thirty when Bilba shored up a burst of nerve and asked if Thorin would like to have supper with her, that night. He agreed immediately, and since The Silver Platter's menu encompassed lunch and brunch, they made their escape with only minimal tutting from Dori.
"We'll be discussing that foolish plan of yours again, and at length," Dori had hissed in her ear, as she was pulling her red coat over her soft, caramel coloured jumper (her nicer brown coat was still at the dry cleaners, with a middling chance of survival; nearly a week zipped up in a plastic bag, overlooked and marinading in kerb water, had done it no favours at all). Dori's low tone reminded her of a thousand warnings on a hundred different shoots: arch your spine, neck stretched, like this, so help me god.
There was a rather nice pub within walking distance, and Thorin didn't object to Bilba taking hold of his hand again as they meandered through the chilly night air, both of them wearing their gloves. He'd retrieved his own fine grey pair from the paper shopping bag she'd carefully folded his wool coat into— not a Gigi's bag, she'd made certain— but now that she knew how warm his palm actually was, it was simple to imagine even through the layers of leather and cashmere. In fact, the twinkle in his eye as he'd turned towards her, after she reached up and caught his swinging arm to lace her fingers between his own, had been luminous in the glow of shops and streetlamps.
Over supper, she heard about his sister Dis, and his nephews— Fili, who she had apparently already met during the lift incident, and younger brother Kili, who was currently suffering through sixth form.
("He's more than capable," Thorin had explained, his face pinching up in that half-proud, half-pained, entirely affectionate scowl Bilba remembered her own father wearing on occasion. "Smarter than he acts, smart enough for uni if he applied himself, but stubborn. I think the only reason Dis doesn't have my head mounted on her wall is the fact that he's still torn between applying to the brigade, and taking a gap year.")
Bilba had avoided saying much about her own family; her parents had been killed in a car wreck when she wasn't quite Kili's age, and most of her extended relations wouldn't give Mad Bilba the time of day now that she'd left the West Midlands behind in favour of her indecent profession in the wicked city. There wasn't really a good way to spin that for a first date.
Still, she spoke about the Risons— Nori was closer to Thorin's age than Dori, but had been rather wild and scarce even as a lad, while Ori was young enough to have avoided Thorin's notice as anything more than another little cousin. The Broadbeam family, Thorin did not know, which was a strange sort of relief; if she'd discovered that Bofur and Bombur were also his cousins, or Bifur was some distant uncle, the coincidences would have been far too thick on the ground.
It was late when they tumbled out of the pub, full of good food and still quite sober, laughter coming easily and hands clasped comfortably. Bilba didn't hesitate for a moment before giving her address to the cabbie that picked them up, unwilling to give her dark memories of Smeagol the power to make her nervous after such a gorgeous date.
Gladden Street, and then Carrock House, appeared a bit too quickly for Bilba's liking, but she bit back her disappointed sigh at the sight of home.
"Here we are," she said as they stopped, popping the door and stepping out onto the kerb. Behind her, she heard Thorin tell the driver to wait, and then the sound of the other door opening and closing.
"Very nice," Thorin said, waving a hand to indicate the beautiful old building as he came around the back of the cab. She murmured her thanks, and the pair of them ambled up the walkway, past the tall iron fence and the slightly wild hedgerow that separated Carrock House from the street. Thorin walked her all the way to the front door, then lingered upon the step when she made no immediate move to go inside.
"I had a lovely time tonight, Thorin." Again, Bilba felt heat crawling up her neck, but she couldn't be bothered worrying about it. "Thank you for supper."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it." Thorin looked as though he was about to say more, but stopped, his attention flickering up and behind Bilba. She turned to see, in time to catch Beorn bent low and glaring dangerously from the gap between his curtains.
"Shoo!" She said the word aloud, even if distance and a double layer of glass prevented Beorn from hearing her, flapping her hand sharply for extra emphasis. "Go on— for goodness sake! My landlord—" There was a blush well and truly on her cheeks now; the warmth was unmistakeable. "Takes building security very seriously."
"That's not a bad thing," Thorin said, and Bilba didn't look back to him until Beorn had retreated. When the curtain did finally swing closed, she turned, and suddenly her stomach was fluttering around its generous meal. Thorin was close, but not crowding her, and for all there was nearly a foot difference in their heights, it didn't feel as though he was looming.
"I'd like to see you again," she said, because it was either say something, or risk failing to stifle the urge to climb him like a very handsome tree. It was also something entirely true, and if Thorin's grin was any indication, the sentiment was probably returned. Feeling brave, she dared a bit more. "Soon, maybe?"
"I'd like that, very much." Some of the strange awkwardness her front step had bricked up between them sloughed away, and Thorin took her hand again, his broad thumb stroking over her knuckles through their gloves. "I'm off until Tuesday, and then again next weekend. I could ring you tomorrow?"
"Definitely, yes." But for the moment, there was a cab waiting at the kerb. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Thorin parroted once more, then leaned down very slowly, giving her plenty of time to step away from the impending hug if she wished.
Of course she bloody didn't wish, thank you. Instead, she slid into the strong bracket of his arms and looped her own around his ribs, not quite able to reach his shoulders without stretching and pulling them entirely, inexorability flush. His chest was solid as granite, his arms firm and thick under his sleeves, but he did not bring that obvious power to bear. The embrace was sturdy, but not squeezing, and she found herself in no great hurry to leave it.
"Goodnight, Bilba." His voice was quiet, his breath warm even against her burning cheek, and she wondered if he could feel her blush when his lips brushed the lightest kiss just there, before he pulled gently away.
This wasn't even remotely fair; she was a grown, worldly woman, and her knees actually felt jellied by a damned peck on the cheek.
"Goodnight," she managed, her throat gone desert dry, and pressed his hand a bit tighter before letting him go entirely. Thorin paused an instant longer, seemingly studying her face as she found her keys in her bag, then ducked his head once and turned to start down the front step.
It was sheer luck that had Bilba glancing up towards the street, rather than unlocking the door immediately— there, rolling down Gladden Street, was the unmistakable red bulk of a bus.
And also there, in a matching red negligee and knickers, was a massive full-colour poster of Belle Bijou plastered down the side.
Oh shitting buggering shit shit shit.
"Thorin!" He had only made it as far as the bottom step before her outburst brought him up short. And as her fickle luck would have it, that meant he was the perfect height for her panicked solution. Reaching out, Bilba grabbed hold of one of the flaps of his breast pockets, tugging him into a firm, clumsy kiss.
AN: And finally we have achieved first date! Also, let it be known that Dori/Gandalf makes me deliriously happy. So there's that :D