If love felt like indigestion then uncertainty was not much different, Bilbo decided; a nagging, shifting discomfort in his belly that was reminiscent of heartburn. Watching the growing stacks of crates in the wagon match the dwindling of his shelves in Bag End drew the sensation up sharply and Bilbo could only ignore it, working alongside Dwalin as he filled the little wagon.

Frodo was off with his little friends, a chance not only for him to spend time yet with them but also to keep him from underfoot and Thorin was off seeing to the purchase of another pony. Daisy, also known as Basil and perhaps occasionally by a few names that were better not to be translated, was strong enough to pull the wagon but a second pony would speed the task greatly. Or so Bilbo had been told.

That left him to pack things with Dwalin, much to his bemusement. A fine pair, they made, Bilbo boxing up books and papers and Dwalin making his opinion on that known on no uncertain terms.

"Do you know we have books in Erebor?" Dwalin grunted, situating another crate atop the others. Bilbo watched on fretfully, twisting his hands until Dwalin had it properly secured. The little wagon was not quite brimming with crates, though it was becoming a close thing. Near to the front, they'd been stacked in sturdy, well-tied piles, leaving a goodly area for Frodo to sit, to play or read as they traveled for surely the novelty of riding a pony would dull quickly.

In his short life, Frodo had only ever traveled from Brandy Hall to Hobbiton, a quick enough ride by wagon and not terribly far to walk. Bilbo thought wryly that the boy would be finding quickly that travels were hardly the unending adventure he believed. Certainly it was a lesson Bilbo had yet to forget.

Dwalin lifted another crate next to the first, strapping it down with rope, grumbling beneath his breath, "Aye, lots of books. Enough to keep any fool busy for a few lifetimes."

"Are there?" Bilbo said, politely absent. He carefully nailed the lid on the last crate of books, crammed tight with a stack of maps laid across the tiny space at the top.

"Yes!" Dwalin snorted, snatching it up almost before Bilbo gave the last tap to the last nail. "Not sure why you have to haul all these when there's already plenty."

"Point the first, those are not my books," Bilbo pointed out, "Point the second, books are not interchangeable simply because they all have pages. You'd hardly take a replacement axe without a fuss, would you?"

"No, but an axe would be something useful," Dwalin snorted. "Thorin has plenty of books of his own. I wager you'll find them interesting enough."

"Still not my books," Bilbo said, singsong, "And besides, those are not all books, some of those are Frodo's toys. Perhaps you'd like to explain to him that you're tired of packing and would he be so kind as to leave a few behind."

Dwalin gave him a look of outrage, "I'd leave your underthings at the side of the road before I'd forget even one of that lad's parcels!"

"Indeed," Bilbo fought a smile, "Quite the treasure to anyone who found that box. Then I suppose you'd best get on it, since I'm afraid I've forgotten which box is which."

"I do hope you have a little more room in that claptrap you'll be carting along across the countryside."

The two of them turned towards the owner of that gruff, grouchy voice, Bilbo in astonishment to see Mungo trudging up the path, leaning heavily on a walking stick as he huffed his way along. Beside him, Ferdinand trotted alongside, quick on his feet despite being laden with parcels. Quick, yes, though he never darted in front of Mungo, the better to protect his backside from any erstwhile kicks.

"Oh, no," Bilbo shook his head, "No, no, you've already cleaned out my pocketbook quite enough this week, you old swindler!" Reckless to speak to Mungo so, but Bilbo supposed he wouldn't be needing to cater to Mungo's perilous whims any longer. That uncertain little lurch in his belly, the one that wondered just what do you think you are doing, Bilbo Baggins, warbled up yet another protest. Mungo had been his tailor through his life, and now he would need to find another, and worse, a Dwarven tailor, not that Thorin's clothes weren't magnificent and yet—

To his surprise, Mungo chortled aloud, clearly delighted by Bilbo's irritable spite. "Yes, you do fill my coffers, Mister Bilbo," He wagged a gnarled old finger at Bilbo, smirking, "Though I did not hear a word of protest from you about your pocketbook when that Dwarf of yours was prettied up in my work on the dance floor."

True enough, though Bilbo pointedly didn't grace that with a reply. To Bilbo's dismay, Dwalin came to stand next to him, glowering down at the little tailor, "This is the one who made that shirt, is it?"

"Ah, yes," Bilbo coughed, "Mungo Danderfluff, I don't believe you've met Mister Dwalin."

With grace that belied his age, Mungo bowed to Dwalin, "At your service, Master Dwarf. Any service you prefer." He favored Dwalin with an oily smirk, "And yes, I made 'that shirt' as you call it. Some of my best work, I do believe, even if it was in a Dwarven style. Your King looked quite fine in it, I think. Did you enjoy the view?"

Bilbo groaned inwardly as Dwalin puffed up like an angry rooster, cheeks reddening and his hands near creaked as he clenched them into fists; Bilbo was certain he was imagining how it would feel to wring the scrawny little tailor's neck. Next to them, Ferdinand shuffled, huffing beneath the weight of his packages while his Uncle seemed determined to test fate.

"The view!" Dwalin sputtered, "That view was more like what I'd expect to see in a whor—"

"If you'd like one of your own, I do take commissions," Mungo continued, relentlessly and seemingly oblivious to his own precarious state of living, "The folk at the party were most complimentary about it. Why, when I spoke to Missus Gamgee she mentioned that she thought it was quite a fine look. For a Dwarf."

At that, Dwalin baleful look melted into a blush more flustered than angry and he only shook his head, muttering as he took his leave about odd Hobbits and their queer notions. Bilbo sighed mournfully as his laborer abandoned him, to Mungo of all people.

"You needn't have chased him off," Bilbo scolded, casting a skeptical look at the crates that still needed loading.

"Chased him off?" Mungo said, all innocence, "I did no such thing, I spoke nothing but truth. Now, perhaps you'd invite us in to see what I'm offering before you decline it so rudely, Master Baggins? Or at least before my nephew collapses."

"Oh, very well," Bilbo sighed, stomping up to this door. Honestly, he'd had more visitors this past week than he'd had in months, and that didn't include a pair of troublesome Dwarves. "But I've only a bit of tea and perhaps a biscuit or two. My stores are rather empty, I'm afraid. We're…leaving tomorrow."

The words nearly stuck in his throat, that niggling uncertainly bobbed in his belly like a fish. Bilbo shoved the emotion down, rubbing his chest firmly. A cup of tea might very well be in order, tailor or no.

"Tea is quite fine," Mungo said, grunting as he took the stairs. "If you lot are off tomorrow then we are just in time."

"Thorin does not need more clothes," Bilbo said, a bit tartly as he led them through the door. Tartly and probably uselessly; already his curiosity was prickling to see whatever was in the parcels that Ferdinand was heaving along.

"Then it's just as well that these are for you," Mungo said, taking up the first package and ignoring the way Ferdinand sagged, panting, into a chair. "When I heard you'd decided to go along with your querulous little couple, I thought you might need something appropriate to take along."

"I was with the Dwarves before and my own clothes suited them fine enough then!" Bilbo said exasperatedly.

"And were you bedding their King then as well?" Mungo demanded, appallingly rude, Bilbo thought, as if Mungo had any right to mention their bedroom habits!

"I…" Bilbo began, heatedly, then faltered. "Oh." He sank down to sit in the chair, blinking hard. It was one thing to know that Thorin was a King, even to see him as a King, and quite another to realize he would be standing by his side when he acted as a King. Somehow in the midst of planning and packing, Bilbo had quite forgotten that. Having a handful of guards watching as a fellow stole a kiss would not compare to a kingdom doing the same.

Mungo tutted loudly, swatting at Ferdinand, who merely ducked automatically and scrambled back out the door without so much as a cup of tea. "Didn't think of that, did you."

"I suppose not," Bilbo murmured. He rose to his feet, hands moving automatically to the tea pot, measuring leaves and taking up the kettle of water already by the fire. Tea making was as simple to him as breathing, not taking a single thought, which was just as well. The uncertainty fish that had been leaping in his belly seemed to have found a mate, the pair of them tossing about gleefully.

"Hrmph," Mungo shook his head, snapping the twine on the first parcel, "I thought as much. You'll do fine, Mister Bilbo, I'm sure, but I think if you arrive in this, it will ease a few minds, including your own."

With a grand flick of his wrist, masterful as a showman, Mungo drew out a shirt and Bilbo set down the tea cups he'd gathered with a clatter, staring unabashedly. It was cut in his normal fashion, which was to say as a Hobbit would wear it. Not a match to Thorin's blue shirt and yet, somehow it seemed as though it would complement it. A lighter shade to foil Thorin's darker one and the sight of the waistcoat that Mungo laid against it made a peculiar sound catch in Bilbo's throat. Oh, my, that was lovely; black as twilight, the fabric woven with rich brocade and each handsome silver button perfectly aligned. The jacket nearly drew a moan from Bilbo, a deeper blue yet, made of lush velvet and finely embroidered cuffs and when Mungo paired the lot of it with a creamily-shaded ascot, he nearly melted to the ground like butter left on a summer windowsill.

Bilbo had always preferred burgundies, something Mungo well knew, but to be dressed so in Thorin's colors, he might very well feel worthy to stand by a King.

"Call it a gift," Mungo said before Bilbo could even stutter out a request for a price. "You've been a good customer to me over the years. My pocketbook will suffer grievously from your loss."

Oh, I couldn't possibly was bitten off before the words could spill free. Bilbo was nearly speechless that Mungo would offer a gift, much less one like this, and it would be the grossest of ill-mannered behavior to insult his generosity. "I cannot thank you enough," Bilbo said, fingering the lapels. "It is lovely work."

"Of course it is," Mungo said smartly, whisking it away from Bilbo's eager fingers, brushing imaginary dirt from the collar. "Now," A familiar gleam came to his eye and Bilbo only shook his head ruefully. "If you like this one, conveniently I do have others that are of a similar style that I brought along with me."

"Let me see them," Bilbo sighed aloud, resigned to lining the tailor's pockets one last time. Honestly, how did Mungo manage? He and Ferdinand must only sleep in the winter months.

"Have a look if you must then wrap them up. We'll take them all," Came from the doorway and they both looked up to see Thorin in the doorway, both hands braced against the rounded jamb as he leaned in. Presumably his quest for a pony had been a success and his smile for Bilbo was warm.

"What—you can't!" Bilbo squawked, brown paper crumpling in his hands even as Mungo preened next to him, nearly rubbing his hands in glee.

"I can and I am," Thorin told him calmly. There was a streak of dust high on his cheek and Bilbo was taken with a desire to rub it away with a thumb. "If you're allowed to, I believe the phrase was 'tart me up', aren't I allowed the same liberties?"

"I did not—" Bilbo started indignantly, only to be drowned out by a shrewd tailor, who bowed with a smirk.

"I work to the vision of my patron," Mungo said smoothly, "And I am most pleased by your patronage."

"I'm sure," Thorin said dryly. "And I believe you needn't worry overly much about losing a customer. Erebor is far from Hobbiton but the paths of the trade routes are well established. If Bilbo prefers your work, I am more than willing to pay your commission."

"Indeed," There was a gleam in Mungo's beady eye and Bilbo sighed inwardly. It was good that the royal treasury was at Thorin's disposal. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement. Though, I'll have a promise from you now, if I might ask, your Highness."

"You may ask," Thorin frowned at him, no doubt wary of Mungo's sudden politeness. "I make no promises to my answer."

Mungo hesitated, so uncharacteristic of him that Bilbo nearly gaped, busying himself instead with the tea. "I have a nephew who has talent that rivals my own. His only fault is his stubborn resistance to venturing out past his front door. If I can persuade him, I'd ask that you give him welcome at your mountain. At Erebor," Mungo corrected and he bowed low, in the Dwarven style. "I think he would do well there, Thorin, son of Thrain."

"If you haven't trained him in the same sharpness of tongue," Thorin said dryly, "I think I can find room for another Hobbit."

"I am grateful for your generosity," Mungo said, bowing again, only to offer Bilbo a sharp scowl as an aside. "And what are you doing? I don't have the day to lollygag. Put that on and we'll check the fit."

"Of course," Bilbo sighed, setting aside the teapot as he began to unbutton his shirt.

"No!" They both hesitated, Bilbo astonished and Mungo glowering as Thorin stepped fully into the room, his face a mask.

"I beg your pardon?" Bilbo blinked at him.

"You can change in the other room," Thorin told him firmly, "You'll not do it here."

Bilbo's mouth dropped open, "You cannot be serious," Bilbo said, disbelieving. "Mungo has been my tailor for years; I can assure you, he has seen me and many others in various stages of undressed."

"He will not today," Thorin said, unrelenting. "Change in the bedroom."

The fish in his belly seemed to have swum upstream to his mouth and Bilbo gaped at Thorin a long moment before shutting it with a click, saying politely to Mungo, "Won't you excuse us?"

Mungo, true to his nature, only chuckled deviously, hobbling to the door. "Oh, you've picked a right one, Mister Bilbo."

Not a single pair of eyes so much as glanced his way, Hobbit and Dwarf glaring fiercely at each other in silence until the door finally clicked shut.

"Bilbo—" Thorin began, his voice a low growl.

"That was quite ridiculous," Bilbo cut in, having none of it. Uncertainty was giving way to sharp anger, his little internal fish would be cringing from the heat of his temper. "All he wanted to do was check the fit of the shirt and then you could have been rid of him."

"He was—"

"Not two days ago you were prancing around here shirtless before his nephew!"

"That was hardly my intention!"

"And when Mungo has a legitimate reason to see me shirtless, you take issue with it. Is this how it is to be in Erebor, then?" Bilbo demanded, having none of that. Better to nip any of this in the bud before they took a single step out his front door. "You barking orders and I'm to jump and follow them?"

"Of course not-"

"Because if so, I can tell you right now that I don't care for it very much!" Bilbo snapped, "I may not be a King or a Dwarf, but I am my own Hobbit, and I'll thank you not to be making choices for me!" He propped his hands on his hips as he glared up at Thorin. Only to be met with very much the same as Thorin snarled back at him.

"I'd prefer that he not watch you undress before I do!"

"Oh," Bilbo deflated, a hot blush rising in his cheeks. Well, that was still a bit senseless but rather understandable. "I thought…you changed my clothes that night. After the party."

Thorin managed to look indignant and angry in equal parts, surely an expression Dwarves had invented, alongside mulish stubbornness, "I was hardly going to take liberties when you weren't yourself!" A hot flush of color spread over his cheeks, not hidden nearly enough by his beard. "Not many," he amended in a mumble.

Oh, there was a confession that begged to be explored, though Bilbo only just managed to stifle his smile. If he laughed now, Thorin would certainly retreat into his anger and if he let this go, well, that would not do either.

Everything between them was still flushed with newness and little more than a few stolen kisses. Thorin was yet glaring, bright color high on his cheeks and Bilbo gave in to his urges, stepping up and cupping his face, rubbing away that streak of dust as he urged Thorin down until their foreheads rested together.

Thorin leaned into him, eyes closed, and Bilbo took the moment to steal yet another kiss, adding to his collection, the finest bit of burglary he'd ever managed. Soft lips against his own, the gentle scrape of a beard against his bare cheeks and Bilbo sighed into Thorin's mouth as he captured it yet again. Sweet, tender kisses that settled the leaping fish in his gut, uncertainty melting away.

He did not hear the door clicking open, although the grumbling shout of, "I don't have all day, Mister Bilbo!" was clear as day.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Bilbo muttered. Somehow his hands had found their way into Thorin's hair and he reluctantly forced them to loosen. Only to huff out a breath as he was caught up, strong arms clinging to him as Thorin stole a kiss of his own, his tongue a wet slide over Bilbo's lips, enticing him to give in and let Mungo go rot.

Instead, and with the greatest reluctance, Bilbo gently slipped free, kissing away the frown line between Thorin's eyebrows as he was unenthusiastically released. "You've nothing to be jealous about," Bilbo murmured to him. "But I'll change in the bedroom. This time," he added, warningly, and Thorin nodded mutely.

Freshly kissed, his mouth was damp and lush, ever tempting, and Bilbo forced himself to look away, gathering up Mungo's gift with trembling hands. He took two steps, then paused, casting an admonishing look at Thorin, "Stay here."

"Nothing else crossed my mind," Thorin told him, offering him a crooked little smirk that promised otherwise.

"Of course it didn't," Bilbo muttered and hurried out, pausing to hear no heavy boot steps following him. At least one of them needed to be strong and if Thorin followed him to the bedroom, Bilbo was quite sure it would not be him.

Almost, he did not lock the bedroom door then thought better of it, skinning out of his own clothing and dressing in his new offering with reverence. The fabric was as fine as any of his party clothes, soft beneath his hands, and as Bilbo buttoned up the waistcoat, he smoothed the cloth tenderly. The trousers were plainer, fitting closely and perhaps a touch longer than he normally wore them, closer to a Dwarven-style. A concession to the trends in his new home, perhaps, but whatever the reason, it matched well to the coat.

He gave the mirror only the quickest glance, nervously running a brush quickly over his feet, conscious that he'd been packing boxes all day. Then he straightened his spine and went back out, for Mungo was waiting to check the fit and he had little time to spend primping.

"Here I am," Bilbo said, stepping back into the kitchen. "Do you—"

Like it, Bilbo had been about to say, faltering as Thorin caught sight of him. His blue eyes widened, lips parting, and Bilbo could only stand, watching as Thorin took him in. Drank him in, his eyes roving greedily, and Bilbo swallowed to see the rising heat in those eyes, the pink flick of his tongue as Thorin wet his lips and he did not imagine the sudden clench of his fists, knuckles whitening as if Thorin was only just resisting the urge to carry him straight back to the bedroom.

Bilbo didn't believe he would protest.

"Yes, yes, that's a good fit," Mungo said and Bilbo nearly leapt out of his trousers, so startled was he at the gnarled little tailor's hands on him, tugging and measuring this way and that. "A bit snug, perhaps, but I'll wager it will fit perfectly once you get to that mountain of yours."

It was difficult to drag his eyes from the rising heat in Thorin's, Mungo's words hardly registering. Until…"Snug!" Bilbo exclaimed, indignantly.

"It's perfect," Thorin said, hoarsely, and Bilbo shivered, the deep note of that lovely voice tickling down his spine. "You're perfect."

"Hardly perfect," Bilbo tried to laugh, but it came out more as wistful. The whispering uncertainty that had plagued him today was difficult to hear over his heartbeat, thudding warmly as Thorin stepped in close, one hand rising and his thumb was gentle on Bilbo's lower lip.

"Perhaps," Thorin said, low, "But your imperfections are as dear to me as any of your strengths."

"And a poet as well," Mungo spoke up, sardonically, and Thorin jumped as if pinched, eyes widening in outrage. "I'd like to remind you both that I am standing here."

"How much must I pay for you to leave?" Thorin demanded and Bilbo very nearly groaned aloud, for surely the wealth of Erebor would be made to suffer this day.

Before Mungo could answer, the front door slammed opened, a clutter of tiny Hobbits and one large Dwarf stomping in, and Bilbo dropped his head into his hands, surrounded by demands for luncheon and childish giggles.

"Yes, yes, I'll have luncheon put together presently," Bilbo said loudly over the uproar, patting Frodo on the head even as he resisted the urge to push the lad straight back out the door. He loved his nephew, Bilbo reminded himself, he loved him very, very much and he was not about to neglect him to indulge in any scandalous afternoon delights.

No matter how much he wished he could.

With a sigh, Bilbo turned back to his bedroom, deciding to leave the haggling to Thorin. He was a Dwarf, surely they were excellent at bargaining. He left the crowd of them in the kitchen, padding back to his own rooms. Only to yelp in surprise as he was caught up and pressed urgently against the door, not even within the room as Thorin took his mouth in a fierce kiss.

"You didn't tell me not to follow you this time," Thorin breathed and Bilbo could only gasp, tipping his head back as Thorin dipped down to bite a gentle path up the line of his jaw. Oh, that was…anyone could walk down here and see…

"I thought it was implied," Bilbo hissed, hiccoughing on a moan as Thorin caught his earlobe between his teeth, sucking gently.

"You thought wrong," whispered damply against his ear, followed by a ticklish slide of tongue, delving along the whorls of his ear to the very tip and Bilbo bit his lip, struggling to hold back a whimper. A thick knee tucked itself between his legs, barely nudging against him and just as Bilbo arched against it, groaning, he was left bereft and cold as Thorin pulled away, nearly stumbling as he staggered back against the opposite wall.

The two of them stared at each other from across the short distance of the hallway, each of them panting and Bilbo swallowed hard as Thorin covered his face with a broad hand, visibly composing himself.

"Tonight," Thorin grated out, striding away and Bilbo heard the door open, slamming with frustrating force.

"Tonight," Bilbo whispered to no one and all and wondered if he'd survive it.

In his kitchen there were little Hobbits and a Dwarf, and perhaps even a tailor if Dwalin hadn't strangled Mungo by now. And Thorin had left him to deal with them.

Ah, the unfairness of the universe was staggering, it truly was. Bilbo went into his own bedroom and if he shut his door a bit firmer than necessary, well, he doubted any of those in his kitchen heard it over their own racket. Best to change into his own clothes to make luncheon, the better to keep these for his arrival at Erebor.

Besides, Mungo was right; the trousers did feel a tad snug.

End Chapter 21