The seasons turned. Summer's heat gave way to fall's fickle flashes of hot and cold. The leaves donned their autumn finery, and Buttercup…procrastinated.

This, she suspected, would be one of the last times she'd have in the Shire, the last opportunity to spend time with Bilbo, and so she lingered, taking walks with her brother, accompanying him to market, and (with Dori after Bilbo sought his bed) sorting through her belongings and deciding what must be discarded and what she could hope to transport to Erebor…

…if Thorin had not done as she'd feared and realized how ill suited she was. It was a miserable fear, and it pestered her more with each day. Thorin was not inconstant, but the circumstances of their courtship (if one could call it that) were…unusual. Would she blame him if he recanted?

Yes, both sides of her sniffled as she reached for another handkerchief. But she'd blame herself more.

She missed Thorin. By his Mahal, she missed him.

No, all of them, really. Stoic Dwalin, quiet Ori. Merry Bombur and steadfast Bifur. She adored Bilbo—Yavanna knew that was true!—but the longer she delayed, somewhat fearful of what she'd find upon her return, the more it became apparent: she did not belong in the Shire. Her stunt at the auction had the unfortunate consequence that it had taught the entire population to tread softly around her, thereby destroying the last vestiges of friendship she'd maintained over the years.

Well, all but a handful, but those friends had families of their own. They had no time or understanding for what had compelled Buttercup to leave her home and traipse across Eriador with a bunch of dwarves, much less return with three in tow. The idea of her wedding a dwarf was deemed scandalous, and she swiftly found herself a social pariah.

Nori grumbled under his breath over the matter. Buttercup…didn't. She found herself sad, most certainly, but not truly crushed as she would have expected. If anything, she felt freed. What the hobbits here thought of her no longer mattered—with the exception of Bilbo—for this was not home. Home consisted of a tall, snow-tipped mountain and stone halls. It was a slew of muscular, bearded dwarves with appalling table manners.

Nori, Dori, and Bofur took her dawdling with rare patience. If she'd had to guess, she'd say the three of them knew what she was about—she could read it on their faces along with calculation and sympathy. The letters sent east by them continued, so she assumed they were keeping Thorin apprised.

Buttercup found herself unable to write. She felt wretched over it, but what to say? What could she possibly write when she'd insisted on this separation to give Thorin the chance to see if he really wished her beside him? It seemed counterproductive and…and…cheating to write, and by Yavanna, she wished there to be no doubt. Thorin would choose her without her pestering him, and that was that.

Yes, the three dwarves understood, and when she wasn't with Bilbo, she was with them, taking Nori to favorite pubs, dragging Bofur along to amaze the fauntlings with his clever toys (she wryly concluded that if it was Bofur she intended to wed, she'd be the most popular hobbit in the Shire, bar none), and retracing old paths through the hills around Hobbiton, collecting wildflowers and precious seeds. With Smaug gone, there was still much work to be done in Dale and Erebor, and seeds were absolutely imperative to fix the devastation outside the mountain.

The wind's chill turned sharper. Blotmath arrived and passed in the blink of an eye. Soon, the Yule season was upon them. It had almost been one year since she'd left home. She could take it no longer. Despite the love she had for her brother, she was ready to go home.

She was ready to discover Thorin's decision.

A nod. She'd inform Bilbo the very next morning.

The decision made, her longing for Thorin took on monstrous proportions, keeping her from sleep that night. She felt a humperdink once again for taking so long to realize the truth: she'd never be happy if not at Thorin's side. And by the Shire, if he had doubts, this was one hobbit willing to wage war for him.

Whether he chose her or not, that was up to him. Staying by his side regardless as wife or friend, that was up to her.

Yes, it was time for Buttercup Baggins to hie herself home. Buttercup set ink and quill aside—she'd spent the night pouring out her heart to Thorin in a sappy, poorly constructed prose that would never see the light of day— and wiggled upright from the position she'd been in most of the night: sprawled on her belly with elbows propping her up and legs bent at the knees and kicking lazily back and forth.

Sitting up, she took a deep breath. As soon as she dressed for the day, she'd hunt down her brother. If she knew Bilbo, he'd be in the kitchen with tea already brewed and first breakfast well on the way to completion.

A knock interrupted her musings. Speak of the hobbit. She slipped from her deliciously comfortable bed (elves and dragons, she'd never take that luxury for granted ever again) and padded to the door. Cracking it open revealed a fully dressed Bilbo waiting outside with a wooden tray in his hands, one bearing their best pot and two mugs.

"What did I do to deserve this?" she asked, backing up.

Bilbo offered her a half smile as he set the tray down on the foot of the bed. He lifted the pot and poured his infamous hot chocolate into both mugs. Passing her a mug, he said, "It is past time we had a talk."

"Talk? Have we been avoiding one another?" she asked lightly, accepting the beverage.

Bilbo huffed, "That won't work with me. A serious talk, and one past due."

Hmm. True enough. Buttercup blew on the steaming beverage, wiggling her toes in anticipation. Bilbo made the best hot chocolate. She'd never quite managed to wheedle his secret out of him, but there was nothing that compared. Her brother, she hazarded to guess, could make a fortune if he'd half a mind to sell it.

A sip and she hummed in the back of her throat it enjoyment. Almost as delicious as kissing Thorin.

Almost. An imagine popped into her head: Cooking Thorin offering her a mug of this heady stuff. Perhaps it's a good thing Bilbo doesn't share. Just the thought of Thorin and Bilbo's hot chocolate combined was enough to cause her to fan herself, much to her brother's bemusement.

Then Bilbo adopted a crooked smile. "You're thinking of your dwarf king," he accused, the smile not fading one whit as he sipped from his own mug.

"What?"

"You are," he said gleefully. Pointing at her with his mug, he said, "Don't deny it. The blush on your ears betrays you."

Idiot ears. Her traitorous lips curved smugly. "Guilty."

Bilbo nodded, his mood shifting from teasing to a sad resignation. "Gandalf warned me in Rivendell that you would not stay long. As much as I wish he was wrong, sister, you are not happy here."

Buttercup set her mug down on the tray and claimed her brother's hand. "You are my family, Bilbo."

"Yes," he agreed lightly. "But not the only member anymore." His hand slipped from hers and lifted. "No, don't. I do not begrudge you this. It's plain Dori and Nori adore having you in their lives, though I do think Nori is taking delight in stealing our spoons merely to see what I'll do."

How she loved this brother of hers. Was there anyone in the world so generous? "He's teasing you," she agreed. And if not, she and Dori would search the tricky dwarf before letting him depart Bag End.

Bilbo nodded, then his head tilted to one side. "No matter how much I wish otherwise, you are not the same hobbit you were when you left Hobbiton, Buttercup, and watching you try to comport yourself as a normal hobbit is painful to watch."

"But I am a normal hobbit," she responded instantly.

He studied her from beneath lowered brows. "No, my dear, dear Buttercup, you are not." Before she could take insult, he said, "What other hobbit would hack off her hair, don trousers and chase after a bunch of dwarves?"

"Well, I'm sure—"

"None," he said. "What other hobbit would march into a mountain with nothing but an over-sized 'letter opener', as I've heard it referred to, and a magic ring in order to confront a fire-breathing dragon?"

"I, uh—"

"What hobbit," he continued more gently, "would dare to love a dwarf king, much less profess it to him daily?"

He made her sound so bold! "I didn't."

"You did."

Buttercup frowned. "No, I didn't. I took pains to—"

"Kiss him daily," Bilbo said dryly. "A terribly forward declaration that you, sister, continued to make even after it became clear kissing was not the only way to pull your Thorin from his madness."

Buttercup yanked the sleep cap off her head, releasing her curls to fall about her shoulders, and slapped him with it. "I told you, I didn't expect him to remember."

"Oh, I think you did," Bilbo said. When she glared at him, he lifted one eyebrow. "Deep down, I think you knew the day would have to end at some point. You kept up your clandestine activity…" Here, he smirked. "…so that when it did end, odds were he would be left with the memory of at least one kiss. He'd know the truth. A rather roundabout way of doing things, but rather like you, you must admit."

Silence clanged like a gong.

"You are no ordinary hobbit," Bilbo continued. He laughed when she slumped to a seat on the bed, shoulders rounded and cap dangling from one hand. Her brother stepped closer and fingered curls from her face. "No, you, my dear sister are quite extraordinary, and I am proud indeed to call you family."

She peeked upwards. "Even if the neighbors call us the Mad Bagginses?"

"Even so," he agreed. "You must return to Erebor, Buttercup. I cannot stand to see you moping about so."

"Moping!" She most certainly did not mope. Tragically and heroically pining, perhaps. Moping was…sulky. Definitely not attractive.

"Yes, it is time you return to Erebor, dear sister. After Yule," he added, ignoring her objection. "I'd like one more time to celebrate it with my only sibling."

Her lips tugged upwards. "I'd like that as well."

"Then it's settled," he said. Reaching across the bed, he retrieved both mugs of cocoa. Then sitting beside her, the siblings drank quietly. Well, mostly quietly. Buttercup could not contain her small hum.

"Shall we attend the party at the end of Foreyule?" His shoulder bumped hers. "It might be the last time you celebrate at the Party Tree for some time." Bilbo paused, plainly having more to say. "Say it won't be the last time," he said in a hush, his attention on his mug.

Her head whirled around. "It better not be."

Bilbo smiled sadly. "A queen cannot pick up and go on a whim."

Buttercup kissed her brother on the cheek. "Thorin is an exceptional dwarf," she said firmly. "He'll find a way if I but ask, I'm sure of it." Then with a cheeky grin, "Perhaps in the future, I can bring him with me. Won't that put Lobelia's girdle into knots?" By the Shire, she'd pay good money to see that encounter. Snickering, she finished her chocolate.

"There's one more thing." At Bilbo's serious tone, she quickly turned to him. His expression was as lacking in mirth as his words. "The ring, Buttercup." His hand clamped around hers when she instantly stiffened. "You heard that wizard. He said until he knew more, it was best the ring remain in the Shire with me."

Confounded wizard. Buttercup struggled within herself. Yes, she knew it was potentially evil, but it had been so handy. It was hers. She'd found it and…

"Buttercup."

Her eyes met Bilbo's and found them steady and stern.

"Is it really so difficult to give up?" he asked lightly, though the slight narrowing of his eyes told a different tale.

"It…is?" She rubbed palms across her thighs, chafing them through her nightgown. "It permitted me to save them, Bilbo."

"And?"

A wry glance. Bilbo was an observant one. A side thought: he'd have to be to catch Nori filching things. "It's difficult." She stood, crossed the room to the small bowl upon her dresser where she kept her few pieces of jewelry. She fingered the ring, watching it and hearing it jangle against the few bracelets and pendants sharing space with it.

"Buttercup?"

She blinked. When had Bilbo joined her?

"Let it go," he said. Her a beat of the heart, anger surged through her veins. Terrible anger. But her brother touched her hand. "Your dwarves are more important."

Thorin. The anger puddled away, leaving her vaguely confused. She handed the ring to Bilbo, and he quickly put it in his pocket, much as she used to do.

He patted her cheek. "Now, then," he said in a lighter voice. "This place would be happier for some decorations, don't you think?"

Foreyule arrived in a rush. Where before it was as if she had ample time to do all she wished, Buttercup found herself scrambling from one end of Bag End to the other, determined to make this the best Yule ever for her brother.

There were wreaths to be made, garlands to hang, and spiced cookies to bake in large quantities. (Larger than expected with Dori developing a unexpected fondness for them. Forget Nori. Dori was an excellent cookie-snatcher. He'd smile that genteel smile, and when she turned back around, why, a dozen cookies were poof! missing.)

Nori, Dori, and Bofur, bless them, caught Yule fever with the Bagginses. Buttercup had no idea what Bofur worked on, but she'd spied him whittling away secretively a time or two, his back turned and project hidden from sight. Or projects, she corrected herself with a soft chortle. Knowing Bofur, he could very well be making toys enough for all of Hobbiton's faunts.

Nori disappeared a time or two and refused to reveal where it was he'd gone. When asked, he tweaked her nose and changed the subject, the underlying excitement thrumming through him enough to tell Buttercup her nadad was up to Something. And Dori, she suspected, not only knew what the thief was up to, he was aiding him—she'd never seen Dori smile so much.

As he stole still more spiced cookies.

Oh, but it was a blessed time. There were songs and music—Dori and Nori played their flutes while Bofur played his clarinet—and good food and plenty of cheer.

The only thing it needed, she thought in the night watches when her heart turned eastward, was Thorin. Soon. She, Dori, Nori, and Bofur would depart with a small wagon of belongings early in Afteryule. Though the Misty Mountains would be impassible until the snows melted back, Dori figured that they would reach Rivendell near late February. With a spot of luck, early March would see the way over the mountain range clear.

April, she thought. Come April, by the Shire, she would be back home.

Would Thorin still be waiting for her?

Buttercup's eyes flew open. "It's Yule!" She squealed like a little girl, legs kicking in excitement beneath her sheets. So much to do! Why, First Breakfast must be extra special this day with Bilbo's favorite potato hash with bacon (blecht!) and onions, Dori's favorite muffins (raisin spice), Nori's beloved lemon tea cakes with icing, and Bofur's rum and pecan pancakes.

She bounced out of bed, threw on her Official Kitchen Business attire—a sturdy green dress with years of stains to testify to its fearless approach, matching hair snood with Yule ornaments dangling from its netting, and (the highlight of the ensemble) a leather belt from which were suspended her special Yule cooking utensils. Buttercup inspected herself in the mirror and nodded. Ready to cook. One fist punched the air.

With a twirl of skirts, she headed out of the bedroom. When she passed Nori in the hallway, her nadad's jaw dropped—envy, she was sure—so she patted his cheek and continued onward, her lips quirking at the laughter raining down from behind.

First Breakfast was a smashing success. Then while she and Nori cleaned up her mess, Nori teasing her for her outfit the entire time (she still maintained it was poorly hidden envy), Bilbo whipped up Second Breakfast. More drinking and eating followed, and they moved on to the traditional crafting of the snowfamily, one rotund sentinel for each person…or so tradition dictated.

Instead, it turned into an hours-long task since Buttercup's dwarves, led by Bofur, insisted if they were constructing caricatures of themselves, they'd by Mahal do it right. Banished from consideration were the humble snowmen of yore. Bag End wound up with a diminutive Erebor complete with intricate-looking gates of ice, ramparts full of familiar but absent faces—she laughed until her belly ached at the sight of an icy Bombur with arms full of pies—and at the base, life-like Bagginses along with three proud snow-dwarves.

One of which wore a floppy, winged hat.

Buttercup had rarely laughed so hard in her life. Long before the project was finished, faunts and tweens from all around gathered to enjoy the sight. There was nothing for it but for Buttercup and Bilbo to hand out cups of Bilbo's hot cocoa and Buttercup's cookies and tell a sanitized version of the dwarves' quest to reclaim Erebor, much to the children's delight.

"We'll never be respectable again," Bilbo murmured with a small smile.

"No, I think not," Buttercup agreed. Then bumping his shoulder with hers, she said, "But you'll always be the most popular hobbit in town to the little ones."

To which Bilbo snorted. "Only if your toymaker is excluded from the competition."

The crowd dispersed for luncheon, after which the Baggins household cleaned up and donned their most festive attire.

It was time to head to the Party Tree.

"Mister Bofur!"

Childish screams erupted from all corners of the snow-cleared grounds surrounding the Party Tree. Bofur, Buttercup thought as she giggled, had singlehandedly won himself the eternal devotion of Hobbiton this day. As the Baggins party stepped onto the sun-lit field, children from all directions converged on the toymaker, many of them jumping up and down with eyes locked upon the sack of toys Bofur carried.

Bofur, she thought, should be named an ambassador. Send him off to any kingdom, and within a generation, Erebor would have a large population of adults generously inclined towards dwarves. Erebor's secret weapon, she giggled into one gloved hand.

"That's bribery, you know," Nori murmured from her side. Her middle nadad cut a handsome figure, Buttercup thought, as her gaze lifted to him. Dressed in velvets and wools in silvers and greens, his hair looked all the redder, and his elaborate hairdo and braids all the more elegant.

Buttercup twitched her blue velvet skirts, a gift from Dori for this very occasion. Though he said nothing, it had not escaped her attention that her dwarves had dressed her in Erebor's colors: Durin blue and mithril silver. Why, Nori had even procured (did she want to know?) a delicate headpiece that draped silver swags of fine chains across her forehead, each swag separated from its neighbor by a blue sapphire.

The extravagance hinted of its origins (Erebor), and she wondered if Thorin knew it was missing. Thorin being Thorin, she imagined he'd be tickled to know where it had wound up. Exasperated, too, probably.

Her gaze swept the clearing. This year, Hobbiton had outdone itself. The grounds were lit and warmed by carefully tended fires evenly spaced around its borders with one more centrally placed bonfire dominating the southern end. Right in the middle sat the leafless tree, its barren branches adorned with hundreds of glittering ornaments in glass, wood, lace, and nuts, one for every resident of the surrounding towns.

Buttercup's own creation hid somewhere in their midst. This year, she'd plaited a wreath, the symbol of hearth and home in the Shire. But this wreath had been constructed of golden hair (Goldenrod's) a shade lighter than her own—Dori and Nori both had reacted with horror when she'd begun to lift scissors to her own hair, ergo the alternative. (Sigh.) She'd painstakingly adorned it with dried buttercups and ribbon as close to Durin blue as she could locate. It was not exceptional in its artistry, but to Buttercup, it was perfect. The wealth of meaning displayed on that small wreath filled her heart with warmth and gratitude.

Also upon the tree, beneath one sturdy bough, dangled a sizable sprig of mistletoe, its location obvious so that every married or courting couple could readily find themselves beneath it…and those wishing to avoid the pesky thing had little chance of accidentally finding themselves its victims. At least (she smirked) not without help.

"It's called generosity and good cheer," she murmured to her nadad. Her hip bumped his. "You didn't mind so much last year."

Nori tugged on his collar. "Last year, you didn't make us all dress like peacocks," he groused.

Dori gasped in outrage. "Why, after all the effort I spent," he grumbled. "You could at least pretend to be appreciative."

Buttercup took that as her cue to vacate the area. With her own basket full of contributions to the feast that would begin at sunset on one arm, she hurried to catch up to Bilbo, who was making his way to the Party Tree, his head tilted back and smile on his lips. Wrapping her free arm around his, she copied him, staring up at the colorful ornaments. "Did you find ours?" she asked.

"In all this? I'm good, but not quite that keen of eye," Bilbo said. "I'd imagine our ornaments will be all but impossible to find."

She snickered and conceded he was likely right. It was a game all participated in, and the ornaments crafted by the children dominated the most visible spots on the tree to give the youngsters the advantage. He (or she) who found his ornament first went home with one of Maple Overhill's famous pecan pies. By unspoken agreement, the adults pretended helplessness, leaving the spoils to one (usually) tween each year, and she imagined this year would be no different.

But by the Shire, the thought of Maple's pie was almost enticement enough to drive a soul to cheating. There was only so much temptation a hobbit could take. Given Buttercup would be leaving the Shire soon, she wondered what her chances were of prying the prized recipe from Maple. Her eyes narrowed, searching out the bubbly, brown haired miss.

"Whatever it is you are thinking, I'd prefer you not," Bilbo said, aiding her in depositing her treats upon the huge and already groaning table positioned along the Party Tree's north side.

"Me?" She batted innocent eyelashes at him before returning to her task: setting out the brave cookie survivors from Dori's frequent raids on the kitchen. She hid a couple of the spiced disks among other treats, hoping at least a few could find their end in a belly other than her nadad's.

"You," he said, unmoved. "I'm a most respectable hobbit," he said with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "With a most respectable sister." He laid out the dozen tea loafs of brown bread and carrot cake.

"Oh, most certainly true," she agreed. Then tapping one cheek, eyes skyward, "Mostly true," she corrected, only to laugh as his hip threatened to topple her.

"Will you join the Ladies' Dance this year?" Bilbo asked curiously, a measure of calculation on his face that she did not understand.

Was this some trick? "Of course. Should I be concerned? You aren't planning on tripping me, are you?" Her lips lifted in a lopsided smile.

"Of course not." Bilbo swatted her arm. Then rocking upon his heels, thumbs tucked into his pockets, he said, "Good. Yes, this is very…good."

"That's two goods in one sentence. You, dear brother, are up to something."

Wide eyes blinked over at her. "What a thing to accuse your own brother of."

Huh. Yes, he was most definitely up to something, but it didn't look like he was in any hurry to spill the beans. "Alright, keep your secrets. But you are acting mighty tricksy."

"Tricksy?" he burst, laughing. "That is a mangling of the language. Where in Middle Earth did you acquire that gem?"

"Gollum," she answered, her smile fading.

Bilbo claimed her empty basket and stowed it beneath the table. Then wrapping one arm around hers, he said, "That's enough of that. This is a day for joy and celebration. So lets, dear sister, do it in true Took style."

"But we're respectable hobbits," she reminded him impishly.

"With a touch of the Took," he reminded her with a sniff. "We do have that side of the family's reputation to maintain as well."

Buttercup bounced on the balls of her feet. What kind of trouble could they get into?

A finger pointed at her nose. "In moderation."

"Oh, of course." Then softer, "You'll join in, then? Really?"

"I'm well and truly ensconced in the 'eccentric' category now, I'm afraid." His eyes danced and his lips shook with mirth for all his mock sorrow. "If eccentric, I am fated to be," he sighed, "I shall endeavor to be the most eccentric hobbit in the Shire."

Matching grins bloomed on their faces. In unison, the two Bagginses were off.

It started tamely enough. They were Bagginses, after all. Drawing upon an old expertise from their tween years, they snuck about like well-dressed ghosts. A diversion here, a misdirection there, and the dreaded mistletoe popped up in random locations, snaring itself a number of victims. Even, the two recoiled upon sighting, Lobelia and her husband.

"Is that supposed to be a kiss?" Buttercup asked her brother in an undertone, her eyes wide. Why, if that was Otho's idea of a kiss, when it was his own wife… "No wonder she's a sourpuss," she said, discovering a new sympathy for her cousin. "Why, Thorin and I weren't even married, and we were much more…" A cough. A blush.

"Yes?" Her brother's arched eyebrow dared her to continue.

Instead, she grabbed his arm. It was past time to move the mistletoe again.

Yes.

Past time.

From there, they spiked the adults' beverages, one cup at a time…while sampling the till. (Couldn't be spreading inferior spirits about, now, could they? Good heavens, no, her Took self cried.) Come to think of it, Buttercup wasn't sure about Bilbo sipping much of anything. But she, by the Shire, enjoyed a goodly dose of the cider and eggnog, neither of which had been found among the dwarves.

Later, she would blame the eggnog. Yes, it was the eggnog's fault that a cream puff ended up in her hand…and her hand ended up in Bilbo's face. When her brother had wiped smears enough from his eyes to restore his vision, a cupcake squashed itself on the crown of her head. She didn't witness him in action, but logic dictated it most certainly had been he.

Taunting glare met taunting glare. Eyes narrowed in unison.

Ignoring the handful of scandalized faces turned their way, the two calmly and methodically instigated the most massivest (Buttercup was certain) food fight ever, snorting and laughing as if they were tweens. Bofur was the first to join in, scooping up a cherry tart and lobbing it square in Bilbo's face. All the children cackled with glee when Bilbo scraped red goo from his chin and nibbled on the flaky bit of crust that had glued itself to his cheek.

"Really, this is most excellent," he said. "My compliments to the cook." Then with an arched brow, her brother asked the children, "Well, what are you waiting for? Why, in my day…"

The rest was lost beneath a chorus of young hobbit battle cries—the best kind, she was sure. Buttercup exchanged another glance with her brother, her throat tight. He winked and lobbed the remnants of the cherry tart her way. The sugary war between them resumed.

In the end, the Bagginses managed not only to drag Hobbiton's youth and one dwarf into the culinary war but the faunts and many of their parents as well. There was much squealing and laughter in the ensuing battle, and by Yavanna, Buttercup had rarely had so much fun. Nor, she hazarded to guess, had most of the participants.

That is until the oddest yelp rose above the fray, one followed by a chorus of gasps…and then a profound and spreading silence. Buttercup had been in the midst of lobbing volleys back and forth with a cackling Widow Proudfoot—the matron's gray curls were plastered with fruit fillings—when the two of them realized in tandem that something was amiss. By unspoken consent, they left off their private war to glance in the direction of the disturbance.

Buttercup anticipated a heated exchange with Lobelia likely in the making. Or perhaps the Thane himself finding cause to end the food frolicking before more of the feast designated for later was imperiled.

She couldn't have been more wrong. With jaw dangling, she thought, Oh my.

The Baggins-instigated food war had netted another victim.

Thorin.