Bilbo was the only Baggins in the history of the Shire to be a Bounder, but despite the mutterings of the more conservative members of the community (read: everyone), he knew they all held a healthy amount of respect for him because above all else, he was a damn good one. The only ones who really approached him, though, were the Tooks and the fauntlings who wanted nothing more than a good story, something Bilbo never could deny children (never-mind the fact that he himself was barely out of his tweens); and so it went, Bilbo would disappear before the day broke, make an appearance at sun-high for the faunts to tell tales of his past ventures, and then disappear again until long after his neighbors went to bed, wherein the cycle would start all over again.
To be completely frank, Bilbo was exhausted with his rigorous-yet-monotonous schedule, so when he saw the shifting mass huddled just outside his gate one morn, he was secretly thrilled. Of course he didn't voice it, but he was rather hoping that they were there for some sort of exciting reason- anything to give him a viable excuse to abandon his home and quest beyond the rolling green hills that were just as ready to bore him to death as his nosy neighbors were. Bilbo didn't expect that to be anything close to the truth, of course, but as always his imagination was running away from him before he could tame it. Hopes were easy to quash; dreams were much harder, which was what he repeated to himself sternly so that he wouldn't be so disappointed later on when it turned out they were just a group of passer-bys.
Limping steadily along, the young Hobbit quirked his lips in greeting as he, in painstakingly slow fashion, managed to finally come into view of his "guests". Up close, he was able to identify them and counted out a dozen dwarves as the perpetrators of whom were disturbing his "snug life". It wasn't until he was within reaching distance that Bilbo realized that they were all staring at him with similar looks of disturbed concern, the Bounder having completely forgotten his ailments in his excitement. He figured he must look like some sort of vengeful spirit, what with his bloody and haggard state, but couldn't quite find it in himself to even attempt an appearance of dignity. What was the point when they've already seen him? Wiping his face out do nothing but smear the stains of red across his cheekbones and experience told him that such an action only showed to horrify even more so. No, Bilbo simply continued his gait until he rounded his gate, pushing through the throng of bodies, unlocked it and jovially invited the stunned crowd in.
Hearing his voice must have shaken them from their stupor, seeing that as soon as the word "Please" left his lips, they let loose a cacophony that was sure to awaken the entirety of Middle Earth. In all the confusion, Bilbo wasn't able to make out even a word of what they were trying to scream at him, but he could guess it had something to do with the pitiful state he was in considering the way their eyes stared on with angry fascination at the blood dripping down to his porch.
Rolling his eyes at their dramatic displays, he huffed a breath and asked, a bit more impatient this time, "Are you coming in, or am I to leave you lot out here?"
A wave of distress rolled through the crowd, but after some shuffling they all managed to settle down and somehow organize themselves enough to make their way into the smial. All of their eyes were fixated on him with an intensity that was beginning to annoy him, but instead of snapping he suggested they all get comfortable and left them to their own devices as he went to clean up in the bathroom.
Bilbo didn't really have anything of true import hanging around, and all sentimental items were locked away safely, so he wasn't worried about them ruining his property. He had long gotten over the novelty of material things, and they were now categorized as "Sentimental/Useful".
Setting himself gingerly down on the porcelain lid of his toilet, Bilbo stripped and cursed softly as the fabric stuck to his skin, and he dabbed at his wounds with a damp cloth (he always made sure to leave a small bowl of water and a washcloth next to the toilet for the day), trying to soothe the throbbing resulting from him basically ripping off whatever natural clotting had managed to accrue. After some time, having finally cleaned himself to a somewhat passing standard, he stood up carefully and hobbled over to the cabinet to grab a needle and thread. The wound wasn't all that bad, but Bilbo still absolutely hated to stitch himself up. It was painful, and tedious, and most of the time they would just end of ripping because of some reason or other and then he'd have to do it all over again. Alas, complaining never got the job done, so Bilbo simply grit his teeth and got to work.
He was focused, surely, but he wasn't so absorbed in his endeavors that he missed the footsteps in the hall coming towards him, although he wasn't overly concerned with what they needed. If they were hungry, Bilbo was sure they would raid his pantry as countless others of their kin have done when visiting his home, so it mustn't be that; perhaps they were cold? It wasn't overly sunny today, but they shouldn't be too chilled considering the layers they were wearing. Just as he was about to think up another reason, one of the dwarves appeared in the doorway.
He was older, face weathered and beard a stark white contrast to the dark skin, seeming to be trying to look into the Hobbit's soul as though he held all the answers of the Valar. Clearing his throat, Bilbo raised a brow, not quite uncomfortable but also not completely fine with the dwarf attempting to cut him in half with a look.
"Is there something you need, Master Dwarf?" The bloody rag was expertly hidden by his thigh, not that it did much considering he was completely bare for the other to see all of his 'inconveniences.'
All he was granted in response was a singular grunt before, with surprising swiftness, the Dwarf flashed to his side and was inspecting his wounds with prodding fingers. Freezing in place, the young Baggins just barely held himself back from a full-body flinch, allowing himself instead a sharp exhale and pathetic slap at the hand now invading his personal space (not that it did much).
After a few tense minutes, Bilbo cautiously leaned back against the wall and gave the obviously-more-experienced fellow a subtle nod in acquiescence. He would give no opposition, as it wasn't as though he had anything to lose and it was really quite nice to have someone look after him. It had been years since anyone had thought to check in on him, so it was a welcome difference to be cared for. The Healer- and really Bilbo was just assuming things, but it was very unlikely that the dwarf was not the Healer of the Company- had a stern grip on his knee, but his fingers were light as they palpitated the damaged area of his body. It was rather calming, in all honesty, but just as he was nodding off, he was startled back to lucidity by a sharp whistle accompanied by what sounded like every one of his guests making their way to his location, if the rattling of the glass was anything to go by.
Well, this was definitely not what he thought was going to happen.
He expected the Healer to poke around, deem him fit after a swift inspection and be on his way as most healers did, but evidently not as there were now eleven other pairs of eyes peeking in at him with that same intensity they had on his doorstep. Perhaps he should have inquired about who they were first before letting them cross his threshold…
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Bilbo was sitting ram-rod straight in the middle of the dwarrow's circle, eyes wide and mouth twisted in a horrendous example of a smile as he was berated like a fauntling. How did he manage to get in this exact situation, anyways? Being chastised in a dizzying display of Common and Khuzdul, the Hobbit was beginning to form a headache from the whiplash it gave him.
"-yer jus' a child-!"
"Ye should be takin' care o' yerself, no' gallivantin' around lie a bea'en 'orse! An' fer tha' ma'er-!"
"Who did this tae ye, laddie? I'll go make sure they ne'er touch ye ag'in!"
On and on and on, it was like Hobbiton drinking games- they just seemed to go on forever, and once you thought they were done they drew breath and began anew. There was a rhythmic pulsating at his right temple and he would bet all his wealth that it was now purely for the sake of the dwarrow themselves, who no doubt were planning on adopting him if he was following their line of arguments correctly. How irksome.
Exhaling his annoyance, Bilbo stood.
Or, attempted to stand- for some reason he didn't anticipate being mobbed by the overprotective nameless strangers. He really must get to that part, but for now the Bounder was determined to right their misconceptions, Mahal's stubbornness be damned. While he may usually be able to tolerate, and even enjoy, the raucous joviality his cousins brought, this was really getting to be too much. He wasn't even that injured today! It had been several years since he was deemed "hospital-worthy", and he did not plan on ruining that streak because of his panicking stone-kind.
So lost in his thoughts, Bilbo almost let his twelve new "mothers" placate him into settling, and really that would simply not do.
He was a grown Hobbit, a Bounder, and the Lord of his Estate! He had a reputation to uphold, family honor to cultivate and dignity to protect. He would not accept such disrespect in his own smial.
(Apparently voicing one's opinions to clucking hens resulting in terrifying tongue lashings that made one's ears ring. Of course. Who knew?)
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Fili and Kili may be proper grown dwarrow now, but that didn't save them from blanching at the sight of such gruesome history painted across the Halfling's skin in red and silver and pink like some cruel mural dedicated to the Valar. They had seen so many scars, they had a few of their own in fact, but absolutely nothing could have prepared them for the sight of the little one's blemished skin. Who would do this to a child? Only the darkest of evils would dare to set hand upon younglings, one's fit for their mother's rage and their Uncle's frightening focus; fit for Dwalin's anger and Balin's harsh words; fit for the wyrm who desecrated their home.
What type of horrid creature-?
The brothers were interrupted by Oin's frustrated grunts (sounds they were intimately familiar with being as that they were common occupiers of the dwarve's infirmary). They searched frantically for the Hobbit- Master Baggins (was he old enough to hold that title?)-and found their target safely ensconced within the cradle of their kin, spitting mad and struggling to be free, but safe. Apparently Oin was not amused by the struggling of his patient who was obviously going to be pulling his stitches- stitches that he put in himself! A child!- if he continued on in this fashion, but the brothers weren't worried about that; Oin had handled much more ornery patients in his time, and a child was nothing compared to their Uncle.
On the other hand, they had never met a child with such an aversion to affection, much less medical care (although the latter was a bit more common, if in a milder sense).
"I am not some child you that you may handle as you wish! I am a fully grown, respectable member of the community and am able to take care of myself, thank you!" By this point, the Hobbit was spitting out his words in what was an obviously failing effort to tame his anger. "I do not need some absolute strangers coming into my home and attempting to monopoli-"
The little one's rant was punctuated early by the slamming of the front door.
It appeared as though Uncle had arrived, and if the thundering footsteps was anything to go by, he was furious.
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The last thing Thorin expected to happen was for Balin to come charging out of some Halfling's hole-in-the-ground looking all but ready to eat the entire damn hill in frustration.
No, it was the last thing he ever expected to happen, so of course that was what occurred.
"Thorin!"
Said dwarf looked on patiently, an upturned brow the only real indication that he heard his name being called. Expending energy on unknown worries was pointless, and so he would wait until the advisor managed to pull his braids from his mouth (so-to-speak).
"Our burglar! He's only a wee child! Beardless- completely smooth-faced!- and injured at that; Oin is looking the poor thing over as we speak, and the lad has the audacity to be offended! At us! Oh, these horrid- he's nothin' but an ankle-biter and he's actin' like a kicked dog, Thorin!"
After that short spiel, Balin degenerated into Khuzdul, mostly so that he could curse colorfully enough to ease his rage. The old advisor must have been truly enraged if he was willing to use such language, in front of him nonetheless, some of which Thorin was absolutely sure he made up on the spot. He would have to remember those for future use.
However, that wasn't the issue.
The issue was that Tharkun had lied to them about something as serious as the age of their possible shield-brother and was willing to risk the life of a youngling. From what Balin was saying, Thorin could only assume he was not even in his developmental stage, but perhaps they were mistaken? As far as the king-under-the-mountain had seen, no other hobbit had significant facial hair (although their age did show in the creases of their eyes), and the old court adviser had not mentioned there being a guardian staying within the home…
Shaking off his ruminations, Thorin decided to see for himself just how severe the situation truly was and barked at Balin to show him to the young one. The older dwarf sobered up rather quickly at the order and made his way through the small green door, leading him to what was must have been the sitting area, not that he could tell seeing as how it was obscured by a sea of a dozen of his kin. Seeing Dwalin, one of his fiercest warriors, so distraught was concerning seeing as how the large Dwarf was usually so stoic in his mannerisms. Just how bad was it?
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Bilbo was cut off mid-rant by the slamming of his door, the handle flying out and knocking a hole into wall. Again. He didn't even have to turn around to know exactly what happened; he would recognize that sound anywhere from his own rough handling, but the fact that it was yet another stranger causing said damage seemed to make it that much more pronounced. And infuriating. By Yavanna's Embrace, were the dwarrow trying to destroy his home and dignity? He expected as much, and braced himself for an extra round of curses.
What wasn't expected, however, was the absolute silence that followed.
His head was twisted at an awkward angle in his attempt to catch a glimpse of the newcomer- Bilbo was all but drilled to his seat by the Company- but as it turned out there was no need for him to resort to such discomfort: the subject of his interest was coming to him. And he looked, for whatever reason, just as mad- if not more so- than himself, although the hobbit couldn't fathom why considering it was his home being ransacked, and his person being detained. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking that scowl for a grin, nor the clenched fists for some odd sort of gesture for a high-five; no, this dwarf appeared to be livid.
Thank Yavanna for that; Bilbo didn't think he could handle another overprotective cousin.
Opening his mouth to let loose another tirade, Bilbo almost choked on his words when the admittedly-majestic-looking Dwarf knelt in front of him, his path being vacated by his other cousins so that he could have more room. The Hobbit was shocked at the new development- and the lack of berating- and so it took a few floundering moments for him to regain control of his tongue and scowl back at the newcomer.
"Cousin, I don't know what the problem is but I kindly," and he said this through gritted teeth, "ask you explain who you all are and what the fuck is going on here."
At the word "Cousin," the Dwarf's shoulders had tensed, but when that single profanity passed his lips a growl ripped through the room, echoed by the snarls of his other cousins. A calloused hand came out of nowhere and cuffed him in the back of the head, but before Bilbo could turn around to snap at the offender, another hand came from the opposite end to cuff him as well.
"Watch yer language!"
"Fuck o- OW! STOP THAT, DAMMNIT! I'M STILL FUCKIN' INJURED!"
Apparently, that was the thing to say as he heard more grumbles but felt no more smacks. Until a gentle slap against his calf from Mister Majestic startled him out of his thoughts of revenge.
"No swearing," he rumbled, brows still furrowed deeply. In fact, Bilbo didn't think that he saw his face relax at all since entering his home and kneeling in front of him. How comforting; he always wanted to be surrounded by angry cousins in his home after work, injured, and told off for cursing as though he hadn't been doing it for years.
Bilbo scoffed at the chastisement.
Another slap against his calf, a bit harder now, punctuated Mister Majestic's reiteration of, "No. Swearing."
Two deep breaths later and the Hobbit was nodding reluctantly, wanting to stop being assaulted (however softly it was, he was actually injured).
"Good," his cousin said. "Now tell me, Little One: How old are you?"
Bilbo was going to go out on a limb here and say that his cousin was being absolutely serious, judging by the way his hand was still gripping his leg and how the Dwarf refused to lose eye contact with him, which was unfortunate really considering how he knows exactly how the others were going to react. Truly unfortunate. His other cousins still hadn't forgiven him for his misdirection and were constantly sending him food (after having discovered that any other form of care would be immediately rebuked), which he wasn't exactly turning his nose up at, but was nevertheless embarrassed about. Bilbo could very well cook for himself, thank you very much!
…With reminders.
Mulling it over, Bilbo wondered hysterically if he would be able to spontaneously pop his stitches to get away from the conversation. Bleeding out on the carpet would be a hassle to clean up later, but it would be much more preferable than having this conversation.
It wasn't that Bilbo thought his age was something to be kept a secret; it was just that the Hobbit knew that other races simply didn't understand Hobbit culture and their Coming-of-Age ceremonies and whatnot. Which was unfortunate. Truly unfortunate.
As far as he knew, Hobbits aged exactly as their stone-kin, if not a smidge slower, but because of the fact that they were in such a secluded and protected environment, Hobbits were considered Of-Age and mature enough to begin a family/business/etc. when they were much younger than their stone- or woodland-cousins. To outsiders, it appeared as though they aged at approximately the same rate as Men, but Big Folk were often prejudiced, and unobservant, and by Yavanna were they a gossipy cluster of wrens. Which was fortunate. Truly fortunate, as it allowed the rest of Middle Earth to assume things about them and thus leave themselves vulnerable to the workings of Hobbits.
And so here he was, Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End, seriously contemplating compromising his recovery over having to admit his age- again- to another group of cousins, as if doing it once wasn't enough for a lifetime.
Fuck.
Too long it took for said Hobbit to realize exactly how long he had been quiet, which the Dwarrow obviously took as an answer if the screaming was anything to go by, and he again could feel a throbbing in his left temple at their antics. How hard was it to be calm and collected? It wasn't as if he were a mere babe- he was a few years away from his Coming of Age ceremony, old enough to be living alone and handling his personal affairs without supervision. They were acting as if he were twenty, so to try and appease them he cried out, "I'm seventy, for Yavanna's sake! Seventy years and much too old be called 'Little'!"
Which of course made everything even worse. Because why wouldn't it? It wasn't as though he had neighbors or anything that he had to be mindful of (absolute ass-hats they may be), and it wasn't as though he hadn't been taking care of himself for the past couple of years or so, and it definitely wasn't as though he actually cared about how his cousins viewed him and wanted them to stop molly-coddling him.
It wasn't.
It was just that Bilbo was sick and tired of how outsider's considered him nothing but a young lad when he was, respectfully, a fully-fledged, veteran member of the Bounders. And if he just so happened to get his cousins to stop treating him like a porcelain doll, well then that would just be an added benefit to sweeten the deal.
Bilbo looked around in a detached sort of way, feeling a faint feeling of resignation falling over him once again at the similar situation, as the others began to escalate and turn even more berserk, unsheathing their weapons and waving them around as if they were declaring war on the poor farmers and cursing up a storm (both in Common and Khuzdul).
Of course that was the exact moment when Gandalf had to come barging through and almost getting split in half by seven or so axes.
Because why not.
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Thorin didn't think he had been this angry since he found out that Frerin had died; no, he didn't think he had been as angry even then. At least he had known his brother was loved- knew his brother knew he was loved- and he had managed to live his life to the fullest despite the abrupt theft of it. No, Thorin was absolutely furious, and he didn't care if Tharkûn was a damned wizard, he was going to rip him apart with his bare hands for daring to bring him this child.
But…
But. There was no way he could deny that he and the Company would be able to care more for the wee-one, even on the quest, than anyone here had obviously ever done or bothered to do, so the real dilemma was this: would he kill Tharkûn now, or after they reclaimed Erebor? For all that Little Bilbo Baggins acted as an adult- living alone, apparently holding a career, and whatever else there may be or have been- the Hobbit was in all reality a child, and it wasn't even him being illogical! He was quite literally a child! All Dwarrow knew of their soft-hearted cousins, knew that they aged much like them (unlike the rumors the rest of Middle Earth foolishly believed), and seventy was the equivalent of a teenage Man-child. CHILD.
It had taken quite a while for everyone to calm down enough, and for the wizard to come back in after having been chased back out the door by the thirteen, but the Dwarrow eventually were given a somewhat-acceptable reason for why they were brought to a child's home for the employment of a Burglar (not to say that they were no longer angry at the wizard for his deception; no, they were still plenty mad, they were just given reason to be mad at even more people). No, they would not pardon him because of the reason, but they could understand why he did what he did.
Maybe- just maybe- he would consider bringing the little one along (as if he had a choice; if he truly knew his Company, he knew that they had already basically adopted the Hobbit and were going to bring him along regardless. It was nice to believe that he was still in charge, though).
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Bilbo must have passed out sometime after Gandalf had arrived because when he opened his eyes he found himself smothered by the three youngest dwarrow on his bed, sunlight filtering in through window as the curtains were ripped open by Mister Majestic ("My name is Thorin, young one"). And promptly reached for his trusty dagger that he habitually kept beneath his pillow.
No, it wasn't that he didn't recognize them- it was more that he had the opportunity to say he didn't recognize them and possibly chase them out with humorously faux hysteria. Bilbo could just imagine the faces his cousins would make should he succeed in "lightly tapping" them with his blade. Unfortunately, being weighed down by veritable dwarflings put a pin in his plans, and Thorin had already seen him awake so he reluctantly abandoned his dagger. His older kin must have seen his movement and was now raising a brow at him, obviously experienced in the act of keeping a weapon nearby in case of intruders. Like the damned Dwarrow in his bedroom.
He wasn't pouting. He was scowling fiercely.
Struggling to sit up was a feat unto itself considering how heavy his cousins were, although it was rather amusing to see them tumble off the side in a tangled heap after seeing Master Thorin's glare. It seemed as though they were well-versed in its effects, a thought that made him snicker a bit as well has sigh. Belladonna had the fiercest look when crossed, Yavanna save the poor soul who dared to get on her nerves, and it made him nostalgic to see the sheer fear in the eyes of the young dwarrow so early in the morning. Bilbo held such fond memories of being subjected to his mother's fierce gaze.
He was torn from his reminiscent mood as someone cleared their throat gruffly and addressed him with what must have been the most outraging epithet he had ever heard:
"Good Morning, Little One."
As soon as the words left his cousin's lips, Bilbo let out a low groan of defeat before flushed cheeks puffed out, quickly being deflated in an attempt to assume a more intimidating front. "I'm not a child! And my name is Baggins- Bilbo Baggins! Not any of those names you've given me!"
"Of course, Bilbo. Now, I've actually come to speak with you about your joining our quest to reclaim Erebor. I and my Company have unanimously decided that it would be best if you were to accompany us, and request that you pack swiftly. We plan to break at noon, plenty of time for you to gather your things and settle your affairs, I hope."
Bilbo looked at him strangely. Had he not noticed the packs he set up all around the house? The food kits, and weapons, and caches of medical supplies hidden in every room of the smial? If not, he was truly an unobservant king (Yes, Bilbo knew exactly who he was—Thorin Oakenshield was not exactly a common name afterall) and Bilbo wasn't quite sure how he would fair with such an oblivious leader.
Bilbo figured he might as well prepare for the worst, and began mentally going through all the scenarios in which he may or may not be eaten alive due to Dwarven incompetency.