Bilba leaned against her kitchen's doorframe, one foot propped on the wood behind her, arms tightly crossed. Her head was resting back against the wood behind her, eyes steadily fixed on the worn frame on the other side of the door.

She couldn't look at him.

It had been one thing to stand in front of her mirror and force herself to say his name. It was another thing entirely to have him physically there and have a barrier every bit as strong as death fixed between them.

He didn't know her and didn't care enough to try. Why should he? She rated as little more than an innkeeper or shop owner to him. Just one more in a long litany of people everyone dealt with daily as a necessity of life, there and forgotten again just as quickly. Dealt with and forgotten just as quickly. She'd seen it in the eyes of the others as Gandalf had introduced her, felt it in their fake smiles and overly polite greetings.

She'd been surprised at how much it had hurt.

She'd known right then and there she couldn't handle seeing or feeling or hearing it from him. She kept trying to tell herself it wasn't him, not really, but her heart seemed in no mood to listen.

Which is why when it had come time for introductions she'd greeted Kili and then turned away before Gandalf could even say his name. She hadn't even looked at him. It was the utter height of rudeness, and there was no way to cover it, but she didn't care.

Not when her jaw was clenched so tight it hurt and her hands were in white knuckled fists behind her back. She wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to run and throw her arms around him and tell him how much she'd missed him.

She couldn't do either. Especially not the latter because he would simply push her back to arms' length, give her a look of confusion and ask, "Do I know you?"

And that should be what she wanted, and it was. It had to be that way for several reasons, not the least of which was she was nowhere and nothing like the girl he'd once loved, and it was a good thing for it to be this way, it was.

And yet here she was struggling to not fall apart entirely anyway.

It was like he was a broken mirror, and everything about him was a shard. His voice, his laughter, the barest glimpse of him when she failed to look away fast enough, all of it razor sharp. All of it slicing easily through barriers she'd spent most of a lifetime building.

"One would think our burglar would at least feign interest in our business," Thorin's voice broke in suddenly. "Perhaps we were mistaken in our choice of her."

"Your only mistake is in thinking you had a choice," Bilba retorted sharply. She was exhausted, and her nerves had been pushed past their breaking point an hour ago. She had nothing left to give. "I don't see a line of people waiting to volunteer for your little suicide mission." She allowed her head to roll to the side until her eyes found Thorin. Only Thorin, no one else at the table and certainly no one at the far end. "As for the rest, you want to retake your mountain and hope the promise of immense riches will be enough for everyone to forget the massive dragon standing between you and your goal."

From next to Thorin, Dwalin snorted. "So your plan for winning him over is to piss him off?"

He spoke in Hobbitish, a lost language for the most part, but one she'd revived for the two of them. Mainly so they could talk about idiots in pubs without them understanding what was being said.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Says the one speaking in a language he doesn't understand."

"He trusts me," Dwalin said, smug.

"If you two are finished?" Thorin interrupted. He tapped his fingers idly on the table he spoke, beating out some tune only he knew.

Bilba rolled her eyes, pushed off the frame and headed toward the door. The other dwarves at the table were silent, which meant they were watching her, which meant he was watching her and she swore she could almost feel his eyes boring into the skin between her shoulder blades. "I'm going for a run."

"While you're gone I'll decide if you're needed," Thorin called out.

Bilba almost, almost laughed. Instead she simply paused just before the door. "You need me." She turned her head until she was almost, but not quite looking back. If she looked back it'd be to the entire room of them and she knew where her eyes would naturally be drawn. "Leave the contract out. I'll sign it when I get back."

And, with that, she walked out.

Hopefully, by the time she returned, she'd be able to look at her One without feeling like she was being stabbed in the heart. If not, this was going to be an even longer journey than she'd first thought.

"Is she always like that?"

Dwalin glanced over at Kili and was struck again by how young the lad was. Fili and Kili were both adults, had been for decades by the time they died, but somewhere along the way he'd simply forgotten the fact that they'd both been young.

Thorin had sent them out as soon as they'd turned thirty, off to escort caravans, find work as traveling blacksmiths and anything else they could do to support both themselves and those left behind in Ered Luin. They'd had to grow up fast, and even now were being treated as if they were far older, and more experienced, than they were. Most of the dwarves present at the table had been present for the fall of Erebor or had fought at Azanulbizar. Quite a few, himself included, had witnessed both events.

Fili and Kili hadn't even been born, for either tragedy. Yet here they both were, fighting for a home they'd never seen, with at least one of them at risk of being murdered by an enemy made sixty years before he drew his first breath.

"No," he said now, mildly. "Usually, she's worse."

Kili's eyes widened in horror. Beside him, Fili was staring down at the cup he was clutching in both hands as if the liquid inside were imparting some great secret. He'd been strangely quiet since his arrival not that Dwalin was finding himself the greatest judge of what constituted strange behavior for any member of the Company.

They were all different. Nori was more nervous than he remembered, Balin world-wearier, and Ori - Mahal, whose idea had that been? Fili and Kili were one thing, young but at least trained, experienced warriors. Ori had barely been out of Ered Luin, let alone had fighting experience. He'd brought a slingshot as a weapon for Durin's sake, and not a good one. It'd barely net him a rabbit, let alone an orc or other enemy. By all rights he should still be hanging onto his mother's apron strings, not gallivanting off to face down a dragon.

Kili leaned over to say something to Fili, a concerned look on his face. The lad, in turn, continued to stare into his mug and Dwalin conceded that he probably wasn't wrong in his initial assessment. They were all different, but Fili most of all.

He could guess why and given how committed Bilba was to being a self-destructive idiot, it could only mean untold hours of fun for him.

He needed a damn drink.

Thorin started to talk again, only to stop as Dwalin gripped the edges of the table and pushed back from it. "What are you doing?"

"None of us would be here if they didn't already know the reason why," he growled. It was a good thing Bilba had already left. The last thing he needed was for her to hear him agreeing with anything she'd said. She'd never let him live it down.

Gandalf had yet to produce the key and map, but no one needed him there for that, particularly when the wizard was fully aware of his thoughts on the subject. Gandalf could easily have given both items to Thorin before the meeting with the dwarf lords, albeit to far less dramatic effect. Dwalin had often wondered if the lords might have been more willing to listen had Thorin come to them with map and key in hand and a plan to go along with it, rather than a half-baked hope and a dream.

"I'll be in the other room if you need me." He grabbed a bottle of wine off the table, gave Thorin a pointed look that strongly suggested he not be needed, and left the room.

The fireplace already had a steady fire going so he dragged one of the armchairs nearer to it, plopped down and set the bottle on the small table between it and a second armchair. Bilba's parents had often sat here, as he recalled, and read together in the evenings.

He settled in, closed his eyes, and allowed his body to relax into the cushions. It was a strange thing; his body was young and healthy again, but it was taking him a moment to convince his mind. He had plenty of energy and the aches and pains that had once plagued him were long gone, but his mind still believed he needed to rest. It had also been hard to not groan in relief when he'd sat despite there not being anything aching that he needed relief from.

He must have dozed off because when next he became aware it was to Thorin settling into the other seat. He put a pair of glasses on the table between them and relaxed back into the cushions in much the same way Dwalin had.

"You forgot a glass," he said, nodding at them.

"That I did," Dwalin reached over, popped open the wine and poured two glasses. He handed one to Thorin, and the two of them simultaneously tilted their glasses at each other in a semblance of a toast before drinking.

"I've never heard you speak about her," Thorin said after a moment, setting his glass back down.

Dwalin chuckled. "You don't know everything about me."

Thorin was one of his best friends, but there had been entire years that had passed where they either didn't see each other at all, or only met a time or two.

Thorin was more willing to move into a town and set up shop as the local blacksmith for months at a time, while Dwalin had always been more of a wanderer. He started to get testy if required to sit still too long and the thought of settling in one place made his skin crawl.

"Clearly." Thorin idly moved the glass in his hand, causing the wind to swirl about. "What language was that?"

"Hobbitish," Dwalin replied. "Few of them speak it anymore."

He didn't offer to explain what he'd said, and Thorin didn't ask. As he'd told Bilba, Thorin trusted him. As to how far he could push that trust, well, assuming Bilba didn't do anything too idiotic it should be fine.

He considered that a moment, then sighed and poured himself more wine.

Thorin nodded slowly and studied the fire. "The two of you are lovers then?"

Dwalin snorted at the absurdity of that idea. "Durin's beard, it'd be a toss up over which of us killed the other first." He snorted softly to himself. "Nori would probably start a betting pool."

"Would he?" Thorin asked in surprise.

Dwalin's smile faded just a little. Of course, this wasn't the same Thorin, not yet anyway. Most of the members of the Company, outside of Thorin and the lads, were little more than strangers, or acquaintances to him. "Seems like something he'd do."

Thorin seemed to accept that because his only response was to set his glass beside Dwalin's on the table and lean back in the chair again.

"It's complicated," Dwalin offered after a few minutes. Bilba had spent the day with Thorin and hadn't told him much of anything about herself, which meant Dwalin had no right to do it for her. "She's a bit rough around the edges, but you'll never find a more willing heart, or a more loyal one."

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "That's strong praise coming from you."

Dwalin shrugged. Beside him, Thorin fell silent, apparently content to watch the firelight, and Dwalin did the same. There was still much to be dealt with, and they'd have to work out what to do about that ring at some point, but none of it had to be handled this very second.

For now, he decided, he'd sit here and enjoy something he hadn't been able to for decades.

Spending time with his best friend.

Bilba let herself into a darkened kitchen several hours later. She'd stayed out late on purpose, hoping to return long after everyone had fallen asleep.

She run herself into the ground, until she was drenched with sweat and the only emotion she felt was despair at having to make it home before she could go to sleep. The table was cleared off, she noted, and all the dishes and pots and pans scrubbed and either put away or piled neatly on the countertop. Lobelia could handle returning them to their proper owners. Bilba wouldn't know where to begin.

She stopped at the sink to grab a glass of water and leaned against the countertop to drink it. The house was quiet. So quiet that, if she didn't know better, she'd think it empty.

A part of her wished it was.

She finished the water and turned to rinse out the glass only to freeze at the sound of a light footfall behind her.

Don't be him, her mind whispered. Please don't be him. She was nowhere near ready to have him look through her, would probably never be ready to have him address her in that flat, fake interested way he used when talking to strangers.

She set the glass carefully on the counter and turned. Immediately the near viselike grip on her heart eased at the sight of Dori standing on the other side of the kitchen.

It was so strange to see him standing there, tall and strong and full of life. She'd never realized how much of Dori was tied up in his brothers, until he'd lost them.

He'd taken the road she would have gone down had Dwalin not been there to drag her out. Lost, wandering in an empty house. The last time she'd seen him the dwarf had been near skeletal, his clothes tattered and torn, beard and hair unkempt. He'd simply sat in a chair and rocked, mumbling words that made sense only to him, fingers working in his lap at something only he could see.

"I thought I might offer my services," he said now, eyes clear and hands still at his sides.

"Your services?" Bilba repeated blankly.

"For your hair." Dori gestured at it and, for a second, looked almost pained. "Your last stylist was clearly having a... rough day and you must have been far too kind to mention it. I can help."

Bilba fought a smile. He was trying so hard to be diplomatic, but his fingers were twitching as if he were holding scissors. Her eyes went to the elaborate braids in his hair. She'd always been aware that he took more care in his braids and clothing than the others, and he was always quick with a sewing kit when any repairs needed to be done.

Her failure with her hair must be giving him an outright nervous tic.

She inclined her head slightly. "It doesn't matter to me, but I'll warn you that anything you do will probably be beyond my ability to maintain."

"Well, then it's a good thing you'll have me on this trip." Dori grabbed a lantern she'd had sitting on her table, near the contract she'd requested be left out she belatedly noted and gestured out the doorway. Bilba obediently followed him down the hall and into one of the bathrooms.

Once there he set the lantern on the counter, turned the flame up, and closed the door to keep the light from waking anyone up. He had her wet her hair in the sink before sitting on a stool she usually used as a plant stand, produced scissors from somewhere, and went to work.

Bilba watched him in the mirror. He had a light in his eyes and hummed happily under his breath as he picked up strands seemingly at random and snipped off bits and pieces here and there.

Bilba tried to imagine him doing similar things with Nori and Ori. Their parents had died in a mine collapse when the two had been quite young, leaving Dori to raise them by himself. How many times, she wondered, had one of them sat in a chair, the other probably waiting his turn, as Dori meticulously trimmed and braided their hair? How many late nights had there been when Dori dragged himself home from work only to stay up late fixing tears or adjusting clothing because there was no money to buy replacements?

"There." Dori stepped away after what felt like a few minutes but had probably been longer. He looked quite pleased with himself. "Much better."

Bilba blinked in surprise, focused on her own reflection, and felt her mouth drop open.

She looked radically different. Whereas she had simply left her hair a chopped, uneven mess, Dori had taken the exact same thing and somehow made it look deliberate. It was longer on the front left side, creating kind of a side bang look that curved along that side of her face and down to her jawline. It hung partly over her eye, but not so much that it'd obscure her vision when she needed to fight.

"It's called a crop cut," Dori said as she lifted a hand to lightly run her fingers through the strands, noting he'd somehow managed to create actual layers despite having so little to work with. "Female warriors use it sometimes. It keeps it out of their way, and out of an enemy's hands, and they don't have to keep it bound up all the time."

"I love it," Bilba said softly. She hadn't had a truly decent hairstyle in ages, not since she'd sliced off the waist length mass she'd used to have and that had been decades upon decades ago. She hadn't thought she would care all that much, but apparently she did. She pushed off the chair and turned to face him. "Thank you."

He inclined his head. "Of course."

He left and Bilba took a few more minutes to study her new look in the mirror.

A memory rose unbidden in her mind, Fili's hands in her hair. He'd liked to braid it, playing with different styles. Other times he'd simply loop a strand around his finger so he could release it and watch it spring away.

"You have the most beautiful hair I've ever seen," he'd say. "You'd be the envy of any dwarf."

Her lower lip trembled, and her vision turned watery. Hair was very important to dwarves. It was one of the reasons he'd been so drawn to her.

It certainly wouldn't be a factor now, no matter the magic Dori had managed to work.

She swallowed past a sudden rock in her throat and dropped her hand to her side. It was fine, she told herself firmly. It was -

She cut off the line of thought as the moisture in her eyes threatened to spill over. Instead she scrubbed one hand roughly over her face. Her bruised eye and cheekbone protested, and she used the pain to ground herself before stalking to the kitchen and the backdoor.

She was still exhausted but could tell she wouldn't be sleeping no matter how badly her body needed it. At best she'd end up with nightmares and she doubted anyone wanted to be awakened by her screaming. Instead she went out and found the worn path that led to the top of the hill under which Bag End sat.

It afforded a truly spectacular view of the Shire, currently bathed in the silvery light of a full moon. The night was cool, but not enough to be chilly so she settled down cross legged on the grass to watch the night pass by.

Or, at least, that's what her intention was.

Movement caught her eye and she frowned at several pale shapes in the fields just beyond the hedges that bordered Hobbiton proper. What in the world was that?

She rose into a low crouch, not wanting to present a target on a hill just in case and crept to the very edge of the hilltop. She lowered herself until she was lying flat and studied the shapes as they moved about.

Orcs, her mind informed her. Those were orcs. She might not be able to see them clearly but their movements, the way they carried themselves and skulked about...orcs.

The mark on her back began to throb, sending pulses of pain through her lower back as she worked her way to the back of the hill once again.

As soon as she was down she headed inside and straight to her father's office. There were two forms sound asleep in there, one on the couch and one on the floor but she didn't bother to be quiet. She imagined they'd both awakened the instant her foot crossed the threshold.

She went to the bookcase at the rear of the room and lifted down the spyglass resting on a stand on the third shelf. Adrenaline had already begun to thrum through her as she turned to head back out again.

"What is it?" Dwalin asked from behind her.

"Nothing that can't be killed by a few sharp blows from an axe," Bilba said with probably a little too much cheer in her voice. Killing orcs was straightforward. No stress or worry or anxiety. No trying to plot out every possible avenue or allow for every eventuality. Just kill them before they killed you.

She made it back to the top of the hill, laid down and crawled to the front again. As she settled down she wasn't surprised to have both Thorin and Dwalin join her, one on either side of her. She'd have probably had to ask Dwalin for help anyway, and that would bring Thorin because the two had always been together when he'd been alive.

And because Thorin was damn nosey and couldn't just go back to sleep and let her and Dwalin handle things.

Bilba peered through the spyglass and, as she suspected, orcs indeed. A pack of them it looked like, in the process of trying, and failing to set up some sort of camp on the border.

Perhaps this day was going to involve some fun after all.

She handed the glass over to Dwalin. "Care to do some late night, or possibly early morning, orc hunting?"

He grunted, peering through the glass before reaching over her body to give it to Thorin.

Bilba frowned in annoyance. "He doesn't need to be involved. You and I can do it."

Thorin gave her a look she could practically feel. "You don't think I'm capable of killing a few orcs?"

"I think it's rude to ask one's guest to fight for them," Bilba corrected in irritation. "It's simply not done."

"You asked Dwalin," Thorin pointed out.

Bilba grabbed for the spyglass and, only half paying attention, responded, "Dwalin's not a guest."

Dwalin grabbed the spyglass before she could get it. "You're in no shape to fight yet. We'll handle it."

They both started to move back toward Bag End's kitchen door and, for a few seconds, Bilba simply stared after them in shock. Had he really just -

Yes. Yes, he had.

"Asshole," she muttered, before scrambling after them. See if she woke him up the next time an orc pack started sneaking about. She didn't have to be in top shape to fight orcs, and Dwalin knew it.

All you needed was a sharp sword, or a quiver full of arrows and a good bow, and it just so happened she had both in great quantity.

She'd show him.