Author's Notes: Please don't message me and tell me that I got the family relations wrong. I know. I simplified them cuz the tree is confusing enough.
It was a bright cheery afternoon in Hobbiton. The trees that surrounded the quiet hills were beautiful shades of orange, yellow and reds, and the leaves were beginning to fall in great piles. The air had become dry and crisp, not at all unpleasant. Autumn was the perfect season for hobbits that loved more than anything to cook in their ovens and on their stove tops without their hobbit holes getting flooded with heat. Hobbits were out and about tending their gardens, hanging laundry and the like. It was a normal day.
But cresting one of the hills was a stranger cloaked in a black and blue tunic with a brown fur throw hanging off his shoulders and big black boots with steel toes. He had a mane of black hair with silver streaks, and dark blue eyes that looked determined, yet aggravated. Nobody who saw him knew who he was, but of course it was none other than Thorin Oakenshield. He had left the Lonely Mountain two months prior in a quest to find Bilbo; he couldn't allow him to go on suffering by himself. The month long trip took twice as long when he made an accidental wrong turn somewhere after Rivendale. The king was muttering darkly under his breath about being a fool, but nobody dared talk to him. The women cast him second, near longing glances; he was a handsome, exotic fellow to be sure.
He made his way through the small town, looking for the hobbit hole belonging to Bilbo. He had a vague recollection of the round door, the garden out in the front and the white-
"The white gate!" he gasped out as he spotted it. Thorin had to squash the need to run to it.
He took large strides to get over to it but right outside the gate he stopped and stared at the round doorway just up the sidewalk. What if Bilbo didn't want him there? Thorin, the warrior who had taken on countless goblins, orcs and wargs found himself suddenly afraid of the small creature that dwelled in the house. Regardless, he made his way through the gate and up to the door. For a long moment he stood there, contemplating how he should act. Should he act happy to see him? Detached? A flicker of a thought entered his mind and the king found himself turning to the side and plucking a daisy from the garden to the left of the front step. Soon his knuckles were rapping on the door. And for a while he stood in utter silence, twirling the flower in his hand. Then he heard a light pitter-patter from within the house followed by the scrape of something just on the other side. He raised his eyebrow but said nothing. Just as he was about to knock again, the noises started again.
"Hello? Bilbo?" he called out.
The door slowly cracked open. Without looking Thorin averted his eyes and shoved the flower towards the hobbit.
"Aw! Thanks mister!"
Thorin's eyes flew open and his head twisted forward to take in the sight of a small child. He was small, even for a hobbit, with black curly hair and large baby blue eyes. The child was barefooted, exposing his hairy hobbit feet. Suspenders held up black pants that stopped at his knees, and he wore a white button up shirt. He grinned up at Thorin, completely fearless, holding the flower meant for Bilbo in his hands.
"Who are you?" Thorin asked, trying to keep the edge out his voice.
The youngster replaced the stool he had been standing on so he could see out the peephole to the side. "My name is Frodo! Come inside! You can help me color!"
Without waiting for a reply, the child name Frodo raced back into the house. Thorin stood in the threshold, stunned. Who was this child? Why was he in Bag End? Where was Bilbo?
Then it hit him like a cold blast of air.
It's his child.
With those curls, that complexion, that outgoing personality…there was no doubt in his mind. Thorin smiled sadly.
"I suppose someone brought him peace of mind," he mumbled under his breath.
He still found himself wandering into the house, looking for Frodo. He dumped his pack in the entryway along with his muddy boots.
The hobbit hole was different in the day light than it had been the last time he had been there in the middle of the night. A cool breeze drifted in through each round open window along with bright rays of sunlight that pooled on the hardwood floors. Inside smelled like some sort of soup that instantly made Thorin remember all the meals Bilbo used to make for The Company along their travels and it rekindled the yearning to see the hobbit with more passion than ever.
So close…
Photos lined the walls, each portrait a face with resemblances to Bilbo's in either the roundness of the eyes or face, the color or curls of the hair, the shape of the nose and mouth. Thorin noticed however than there were none of Bilbo, Frodo or whomever his wife could be.
Perhaps she has died?
Frodo was in the dining room when Thorin found him. He was sitting at the dining room table, his legs dangling off a chair since he was too small to reach the floor. Papers were spread out in front of him along with a large box of coloring sticks. His eyes were narrowed in concentration and he added some green to what he was drawing. The daisy sat beside the box on the table. Upon seeing the dwarf enter the room, Frodo motioned him over to the table. Thorin humored him and sat down in the chair next to him.
"I'm drawing the Shire," Frodo declared. Indeed, Thorin could make out the green hills and the round doors.
It had been a while since the King Under the Mountain had talked to children, but he hadn't forgotten having to deal with his two nephews when his sister had business. "I can see. You are skilled with drawing."
The young hobbit beamed. "Thank you! I try my best! My mom used to like my drawings a whole lot too."
So it's true…she must be…
Thorin watched Frodo absent mindedly as he drew more hills and attempted to put flower gardens in front of some of the hobbit holes. There was a constant bubbling sound in the kitchen which sat right next to the dining room. If the smells were anything to go by, someone was cooking soup.
"Do you think it was wise to let a stranger in your house?" Thorin asked as a way to break the silence.
Topaz blue eyes glanced up at him from under dark lashes. "But you're not a stranger!"
Thorin rested his arms on the table and leaned towards Frodo. "You're mistaken young hobbit. I've never met you before. That makes us strangers-"
Frodo shook his head quickly. "I've seen you before! We have a picture of you!"
"A picture…?" Thorin asked dumbly.
"Frodo who are you-"
The voice from the hallway startled Thorin to the point all the blood seemed to rush from his face, leaving him white and dizzy. There was a thump as something hit the floor in the doorway behind him. Turning, the dwarf saw none other than Bilbo Baggins standing in the doorway, his hands still in the position where he had been holding a sack of potatoes that were now spilled and tumbling all over the floor. His hazel eyes were wide with shock, his mouth slacken with a lack of words. Thorin's eyes racked over his small frame as though it had been centuries since he had last gazed upon him. Bilbo was no longer wearing his dwarven wares, but rather burgundy colored trousers, a long sleeved cream shirt and a burgundy vest with gold swirls.
Thorin did however notice through his locks, still attached to his one ear was the silver clip that Thorin himself had given Bilbo the day he left. His heart leapt into his throat.
"Thorin…"
"Bilbo…I'm sorry to have intruded, I didn't-"
Bilbo merely smiled in a tired sort of way. Had he always seemed so tired? There was light purple underneath his eyes that could be attributed to a lack of sleep. Suddenly everything the wizard had said and Bilbo had written in his last letter all came crashing back.
"Frodo," Bilbo said quietly, instantly grabbing the younger one's attention, "could you leave us for a while? Perhaps go draw in your room?"
Sensing the gravity in Bilbo's tone, Frodo nodded and quickly collected up his drawing supplies and bee-lined it for his room further within the hobbit hole. Thorin stood from his seat and stood before Bilbo.
"My apologies. I came to see you and your son let me in. I didn't realize you weren't home," Thorin muttered. "I just recently came into possession of your letter and I thought I would-"
Bilbo looked even more shocked than ever. "M-My s-son?"
Thorin raised his eyebrow. "Yes? When I knocked Frodo allowed me in-"
"Frodo is not my son!" Bilbo spluttered.
The king's eyes widen as the words sank in. "But he looks like he….the name…?"
"Technically he's my nephew," Bilbo explained carefully. "My cousin Drogo is-was, his father."
"Then why is he…?"
Bilbo frowned deeply, his eyes holding a dull pain in them. "He's an orphan. My cousin Drogo and his wife died in a boating accident. It's a known fact hobbits can't swim…yet they wanted to go out on the water. The boat capsized and…they never made it to the surface."
Thorin hesitantly placed a comforting hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "My condolences, Bilbo."
"He came under my charge only shortly after Gandalf's last visit," Bilbo said, his eyes downcast. "He doesn't have any other family that would take him and since I live alone in a big home I had the room they thought I would be the best choice. Plus I have more than enough money thanks to my one-fourteenth of the share from The Journey."
Relief. Thorin hadn't been able to immediately name the feeling that slowly flooded his chest as Bilbo explained, but after a couple moments of looking over the hobbit he knew it was relief. Had he truly been dreading meeting his wife? Had it truly hurt so much to think that he had raised a child since returning to the Shire?
When he turned his full attention back to the hobbit he realized Bilbo was flushed bright red across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He was biting down nervously on his bottom lip, his eyes glancing up into Thorin's as if seeking something.
"To My King So Far Away. To My King Under the Mountain. My Dearest Thorin."
"But by the time we reached Erebor I knew. I loved you."
The words contained in the letters that Thorin had brought along with him rang out in his head as the air between him and hobbit grew tense. The dwarf had travelled all the way to the Shire to confront Bilbo, but now that he was standing before him he found that words had left him entirely. And as the silence continued it was clear the sadder Bilbo was becoming. Slowly, as if Bilbo was a viper ready to strike, Thorin knelt down before him and took one of his hands. They were small hands in comparison to a dwarf hand, but they were incredibly smooth as if made from the finest silks and velvets that could be found in Dale. Small scars crisscrossed his fingers and palms, ones that Bilbo had accumulated over The Journey when being careful only got you so far. Hazel eyes marked his movements as he slowly took the hand and began looking them over. Impossibly Bilbo got redder.
"Gandalf delivered your letter to me," Thorin said, his voice softer than Bilbo ever thought it could be.
Bilbo gulped nervously. He knew what he had written in that letter; his love and admiration for Thorin was written out in black ink and he had signed it. He knew he had damned himself, but for Thorin to be so angry he came to the Shire himself to confront him? The smaller male squeezed his eyes shut. He knew a blow was coming. He heard Thorin slowly stand up to his full height, a good head higher than Bilbo, yet he did not open his eyes.
Suddenly a violent bubbling noise reached his ears. Bilbo's eyes flew open, startling Thorin.
"The soup!" the hobbit cried out as he fled into the kitchen.
Thorin was rooted in place by disbelief. He had hesitated too long and now the moment was gone. His lips which had been parted slightly in preparation to bestow a kiss long overdue now pressed themselves firmly together a couple times before relaxing back to their normal state.
Following after Bilbo he was greeted with the sight of Bilbo desperately wiping up the soup which had bubbled over the side of the pot and onto the stove and floor. Bilbo looked completely frazzled and was spouting off what sounded like curses, but Thorin could only assume they were in some hobbit tongue. It was quite a sight to behold, especially with the hobbit in a nice black apron. Thorin was helpless as his gaze followed the movements of the hobbit as he scrubbed. He was embarrassed to admit, but Bilbo did have quite a nice ass.
"Of all the luck," Bilbo hissed angrily. "I forgot to turn down the heat!"
Thorin approached cautiously. "Would you like me to help you prepare another?"
The hobbit sighed, his shoulder slumping in defeat. "No. How about we go out for dinner?"
A heat flushed over Thorin's body, although he would never admit it.
A date.