A/n:  Hooray for reviews!!!  *hugs her reviewers*  Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!!!  :)

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Frodo trudged up the path towards Bag End wearily, passing a hand over his brow, which was covered in sweat despite the cool evening breeze.

*What was he going to tell Bilbo?*

The day had gone even worse than he'd feared.  After their condescending silence, which had lasted the entire trip to the market and half-way through the setting up of Griffo's stand, Odo had finally spoken to him.

"My aunt says all Bucklanders are strange folk," he declared once his father was out of earshot.  "You strange, Bucklander?"

What was he supposed to say to that?

He'd stood in a stunned stupor, and Odo had continued, while giving him a once-over: "You certainly look it.  Don't you ever eat?  Or can't they afford food in Brandy Hall?  Too many lads and lasses running amok, no doubt."

Rufus and Tolman and appeared behind Odo, snickering.  Frodo looked down, his ears burning.  "I eat," he said quietly. 

However, unlike Bilbo, they hadn't let it go at that.

"You sure?" Rufus had smirked, reaching out and jabbing Frodo in the ribs with one finger.  "More skin on a wright than you, lad."

Frodo bristled, but didn't rise to the bait.  The last thing he needed was to start a fight with these lads—they were all at least twice his size, and could easily snap him in two if they took a mind.  Instead he'd merely shrugged, hoping they would drop the subject and go back to ignoring him.

"Saw him yesterday," Tolman suddenly piped up.  "He was with that Gamgee lad."

Odo turned to him.  "The little 'un?"

Tolman nodded.

Odo, quite obviously the leader of the triad, turned back to Frodo, a scornful expression on his face. 

"That so, eh?" he said, leaning back to study Frodo again.  "Aye, that's fitting.  He oughtn't be mixing with anything above the gardening staff."

"And just what's wrong with them, may I ask?" Frodo said, his voice growing dangerous.  A small corner of his mind begged him to back down, but he had had enough of this contemptuous—

"If you don't even know, you've proven my point," Odo said, matching Frodo's tone and stepping forward, his hands curling into fists.  "And if you--,"

"Ah, there you are, lads!"  From out of nowhere, Griffo Boffin appeared, beaming at the lads.  Frodo took a hasty step backwards, and Odo's fists quickly uncurled.  "Now then, why don't you go get yourselves something to eat?  I know Molly Proudfoot's got her turnovers always fresh-baked this time of year."  He beamed, jingling a coin purse at them.  "It's on me."

Odo accepted the pouch, bowing to his father with a sickeningly polite "Thank you."  Griffo beamed again, then turned away, ruffling Frodo's hair.  "Show 'im the ways of the place, then!" he said.  "And take care!"

Odo turned back towards Frodo, but had apparently lost interest in picking a fight.  "Well, Bucklander, come on then," he growled.  "It's no use trying to lose you, Da'll have my hide.  Just keep up, okay?  Last thing I need's you gettin' lost."

He made a derisive sounding noise in the back of his throat, then turned and scampered away, the others in tow.  Frodo followed, staying only close enough to see where they had gone.  They let him alone for the better part of the morning, and he was able to peruse the various stands at his leisure as they stuffed themselves with apple and cherry tarts, seedcakes, and blackberry cobbler.  They hadn't offered him any, but it was of little consequence: watching them greedily gorge themselves had taken away any appetite he'd managed to work up.  At elevenses he'd bought himself a loaf of bread from the baker as well as some plums with a little pocket change he'd found in his trousers—strategically placed by Bilbo, no doubt.  By high noon, when they'd still not bothered approaching him again, he began to think this day might not be turning out so badly after all.  However, right around one o'clock they appeared again, apparently bored with the entertainments of the market and intent on amusing themselves by picking on him again.

He'd been standing at one of the Bree-hobbit's stands, admiring the beautiful and strange carvings that lined the cart, when he became aware of a presence behind him.  Turning, he'd barely stopped himself from groaning out loud at the sight of Odo.

"Yes?" he asked coolly, hoping they'd merely come to fetch him to return home.  He knew it was too early for that, but he couldn't help wish.

"An' jest what do you mean by that tone, eh?" Odo'd asked, stepping forward.  Frodo was reminded again of just how much smaller he was than the huge lad.

"Nothing," he'd said sullenly, backing away.  "I just wondered what you wanted."

"I still don't like your tone, boy," Odo growled.  "All high and mighty, like you were better than the likes of us.  Hanging around them books all day like you were something else.  As though you could read them anyway."

"I can," Frodo said without thinking, then immediately wished he hadn't.  He felt himself grow flushed as Odo sneered. 

"Yeah, right," he said.  "Prove it."  He grabbed a bound journal from one of the stands and shoved it in Frodo's face.  "What's it say?"

Frodo took it gingerly and flipped it open, desperately searching for a way out of the situation.  He glanced at the scrawled writing on the pages and made a quick decision.  "I can't read it," he said.  "It's written in Elvish, not the Common Tongue."

He realized his mistake as soon as he spoke.  Odo flushed bright red.  "Oh, so you know Elvish, do you?"

"No!" Frodo stammered.  "I said, I *can't* read it—,"

"But you recognized it right enough," he shot back.  "Don't lie to me, Bucklander."

Frodo gritted his teeth.  "I know a little," he murmured.  "But not enough to read this."

Odo snatched the journal from him and flung it back onto the stand.  "Figures," he sneered again, though it wasn't without a flush of embarrassment that Frodo did indeed know how to read, and could do it in more than one language.  "Bucklanders were always the queer sort.  I mean, look at his parents."  He turned to the others.  "They *drowned*.  Like any respectable hobbit would go *boating*."  He turned to Frodo again, the confidence returning.  "Mungo says your pa pushed your ma in, and she drug him down after her."

Odo might have been a brute and built like an ox, but even a brute can be taken by surprise.  And surprised Odo was when Frodo launched himself at him with a furious cry.  Surprised enough that he stumbled and ended up landing on his backside as Frodo pummeled him again and again with all his strength.

"Take that back!" Frodo yelled, his voice breaking as his fury mingled with his grief.

Odo, meanwhile, had recovered some of his wits, and grabbed Frodo's arm, twisting it aside painfully.  Frodo gasped, writhing as he tried to escape the hobbit's grip.  Odo quickly had the upper hand, pinning Frodo to the ground with his sturdy weight and delivering blow after blow at Frodo's face.  Being the more agile of the two, Frodo managed to escape the better part of them, but one did graze his neck painfully, hard enough to leave a bruise.  He finally managed to writhe his way out from under the larger hobbit, but Odo grabbed his ankle as he tried to retreat, causing Frodo to fall onto his face.  He rolled over, gasping—the fall had knocked the wind from him.  Odo drew his fist back and snarled, "You're in for it now, Bucklander."  But before the blow could fall, a hand reached out and caught the hobbit's upraised arm.

"ODO BOFFIN!"

Frodo gazed up into the shocked and furious face of Griffo Boffin, watching as Odo paled visibly.

"Yes sir!" he squeaked, jumping up and pulling Frodo to his feet.  "We was…we was jest…"
"Don't tell me what you were JEST!" Griffo roared.  "I saw plain enough!  Acting like some lad that weren't raised by me, beating up on 'im jest because he's smaller than you!"  Griffo's face was going purple in his fury.  "I told you to show him the way of the place!  Is this how you want him to think of Hobbiton folk?"

Frodo, who'd been inching away during the scolding, suddenly turned and broke through the crowd that had gathered, sprinting away as quickly as he could.  He faintly heard Griffo calling after him, but he didn't turn.  Tears were streaming from his face, and his arm and neck ached something fierce.  He ran, down the path, away from the market, back towards Bag End.  He ran until he could run no more, until his lungs felt like they would burst or catch on fire, which ever came first.  By then he was a safe distance from the market, and quite alone.  He collapsed on the side of the road, chest heaving, breath coming in ragged sobs. 

*Oh, I don't belong here… not at all.  I'll never fit in…*

He bowed his head, burying his face in his hands as fresh sobs washed over him. 

It was a long time before he stood and began walking back towards Bag End.

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Now, late in the evening, he continued his lonely trek toward Bag End, steps slowing as his nerves began to jangle.  He'd managed to avoid being seen, hiding in the bushes alongside the road whenever he heard anyone approaching, but in truth the only person he was truly nervous about facing was his uncle.  What would Bilbo think of him, getting into a fight on his second day at Bag End?  Would he send him back to Brandy Hall, convinced he was too much trouble to deal with?  Frodo desperately prayed he would not—despite today's events he didn't want to return to Buckland.  Though he knew it wasn't really their fault, he always felt—well, a *burden* to his relatives there.  And Brandy Hall was so *huge*…he wasn't really ignored, per say, but just…overlooked.  And that hurt just as bad, if not worse: at least if you're being ignored someone's taking enough notice of you to ignore you in the first place.  But Bilbo…Bilbo had seemed to genuinely care for Frodo, and Frodo had reveled in the comfort of that feeling.  Finally, after years of loneliness, someone was going to take care of him…

*I've probably ruined that now,* Frodo thought miserably, wiping away his fresh tears and wincing at the pain that shot through his twisted arm as he did so.  He looked up to find himself standing at Bag End's gates—too soon, far sooner than he'd hoped.  Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the gate—

—only to find himself suddenly caught in a crushing embrace as Bilbo barreled out of the large green door and hurled himself at his nephew.

"Frodo, Frodo!" Bilbo cried, and to Frodo's horror he realized his uncle was sobbing.  "Oh, lad, are you all right?  You're not hurt, are you?  Let me see…"

He pulled back and his worried eyes scanned Frodo tearfully, taking in the mussed hair, the dirt and tear streaked face, the deep purple bruise swelling on his neck.

"Oh, my lad," he whispered, pulling Frodo back into his arms.  Frodo was bewildered.  He'd thought Bilbo would be angry, but while the hobbit was certainly emotional, anger didn't seem to be one of those emotions.

"Uncle?" he asked.  "What's wrong?"

Bilbo pulled back, wiping his face on his sleeve.

"Griffo was here earlier," he said.  "He said you'd been in a fight and run off, and he couldn't find you…I was so worried you'd been seriously hurt, or that you'd gotten lost…"

He broke down again.  Frodo, stunned but more than a little relieved that Bilbo didn't seem to be angry with him, stepped back into his uncle's embrace, allowing himself to bask in the safety and comfort it provided.  Bilbo wrapped his arms around him willingly, and for several long moments they stood silently together in the starlit garden.  Then Bilbo finally pulled away.

"Come lad, we must get you inside, tend to this bruise…are you hurt otherwise?"

"My arm's sore," Frodo admitted as they made their way back into the lit hole.  "Odo twisted it to get me to stop hitting him."

Bilbo turned and looked at Frodo in surprise.  "You started the fight?  I thought you had more sense than that, lad." 

He sounded more surprised than angry, so Frodo ventured, "Well, he deserved it.  He said…my parents…"  Frodo choked up, unable to repeat the accusation that had wounded him worse than any blow ever could. 

Fortunately, Bilbo let it slide.  "Well, then, let's take a look," he said as they stepped into Bag End, pulling the door shut behind him and turning back towards Frodo.  Frodo allowed his uncle to assist him in unbuttoning his shirt, wincing as he pulled the sleeve from the offended arm.

A low whistle made him look at his Uncle sharply.  Bilbo was studying the limb, his lips pursed, his eyes dark and worried.  "Frodo, lad, that's the nicest sprain I've ever seen," he said, then turned Frodo so his arm was more in the light.  Frodo gasped at the sight of the dark angry bruises that snaked up the pale skin, making it swell to twice it's normal size.  Bilbo shook his head. 

"Well, he did a number on you, that's for certain," he said, releasing Frodo's arm and standing up.  "I'll have to get some balm tomorrow.  For tonight we'll keep it cool.  I'll get some rags wet, there's a vat of spring water out back that should be cold enough."

He stood to go, but the amazed look on Frodo's face stopped him.

"Lad?" he asked, concerned.  "What is it?"

Frodo bit his lip.  "You're…I mean…you're not angry at me?" 

Bilbo's frown deepened.  "Angry?  For what?  Defending your parents?  Showing courage even though those lads were twice your size?  Why should that make me angry?"

Frodo swallowed, tears of gratitude welling in his eyes.  "So…you're not going to send me back to Brandy Hall?" he whispered.

Bilbo's eyes softened and he knelt, taking Frodo into his arms again. 

"Oh, lad, of course not," he whispered, running his hands up Frodo's back as Frodo cried into his shoulder.  "You needn't ever worry yourself about that, dear Frodo.  There's nothing you could do that would make me send you away.  I love you, my dear boy, and that's not conditional."

Frodo sniffed, and his reply was the barest whisper: "Promise?"

Bilbo's heart clenched painfully in his chest.  How had this child survived so long, always feeling this neglected?  He'd grown up thinking love was something you had to earn…Bilbo tightened his grip, the answer coming almost as soon as the question had been formed in his mind.  Frodo'd survived because he was strong—he was one of the strongest souls Bilbo had ever seen.  There was an inner courage and a beauty in him that shone through so brightly that sometimes it was almost a visible light.  There was a spark in his dark blue eyes, so much wiser than his years; so young, and yet sometimes so *old* at the same time… Bilbo sighed, resting his cheek against Frodo's ebony curls. He didn't know why he'd been chosen to care for such a wondrous soul, but he vowed then and there he would do his very best.

"Yes, lad," he whispered.  "I promise."

They stayed like that for several moments longer, until Frodo finally said, "Uncle?"

"Yes?"

"I love you, too." 

Bilbo tightened his embrace, holding the lad as hard as he could.  Frodo returned the embrace with vigor for a moment, then said, "Uncle?"

"Yes?"

A gasping laugh.  "You're crushing me!"

Bilbo pulled away quickly as they both began laughing and the moment passed.  "Sorry, lad!" he said.  "I suppose even an old hobbit has some strength left in him, eh?"  Frodo grinned, but it was laced with more than mirth—Bilbo saw, shining clearly, the love and adoration Frodo held for him.  It threatened to overwhelm him, and for a moment he very nearly pulled Frodo back into his arms.

Instead, he stood and turned towards the kitchen.

"Now, about those rags…"

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a/n: It has come to my attention that my hobbits are all Canadian.  At the end of every question they go, "Eh?"  :D  *sigh*  Ah well.  Oh, and Sangwa: SEEDCAKE!!!!!  :)