Summary: 1992. Two-year-old Q and his father build an authentic hobbit hole. Bright Star 'verse, after "Bed, Breakfast, and Bandages." Posted a little late in honor of Hobbit Day (September 22th).

Wednesday was Hobbit Day, so here's a little bit of cuteness in its honor.

Note: I highly recommend reading the rest of my series if you want to know who all of the characters are.

The Hobbit Hole

July 1992

Damien Drake put away the last of the breakfast dishes, then asked his son the question that nearly always started their day, unless they had something else planned:

"What are we doing today, Danny?"

"Playing hobbits," the two-year-old wunderkind answered promptly. He had just finished the entire series the previous day, so he was very excited to put his encyclopedic knowledge of Middle-Earth to good use.

"Hobbits? And how do we play hobbits?"

Danny bit his lip and gave it proper consideration. "Mmmm. We...well, we ought not to have adventures or do anything unexpected, Daddy, if we're to be proper hobbits," he explained.

"Oh, dear," his father, the ex-double-oh agent, said, "I'm afraid I'm out of my depth, then. That's really all I know about, having adventures and doing great numbers of unexpected things. You'll have to give me a hand with it."

"Daddy!" Danny huffed, putting his hands on his hips, "You silly goose."

His father opened his eyes wide. "Oh, my. Am I a goose now? Shall I strut about the place honking at people?" He made a beak with his hand and began 'pecking' and 'biting' at his son with it while honking.

"Daddy!" Danny giggled, and received a nip on the nose from the 'goose beak' in response. "You're silly!"

"Alright, that's enough unexpectedness for this morning. Let's get down to the business of being hobbits. What do we need to do first?"

"Well...Hobbits are small, have pointed ears and curly hair, and don't have beards. They also have furry, leathery feet," Danny recited.

"Hmm," Damien said, looking his son over with an assessing eye, and an exaggerated expression of deep thought. He tapped his chin. "You are very small. And you do have a lovely head of hobbit-like curls-" Here, he ruffled the unruly mop of hair at his knee. "-And no beard. We'll have to pretend for the ears and feet, though. You have very tender, human feet, I'm afraid, and I don't want you running about outside without your shoes on."

Danny nodded. That seemed quite sensible. He was willing to give up a bit of authenticity for the sake of safety. "Okay, Daddy. Now you."

"Me? Goodness, I'm too tall, aren't I? And I've got stubble and the wrong sorts of ears and feet. I'm all wrong, all over, I'm afraid." Danny's father shook his head sadly.

Danny leaned against his denim-clad leg, rubbing his cheek on the rough denim material and curling his arm around it. "It's okay. We can pretend," he said, picking at a seam.

"Alright. Pretend we shall. What's next?"

"A hobbit lives in a hobbit-hole."

"And what is that like?" Damien asked, getting an idea for an activity that would keep his son occupied all day. It might even keep him busy for the rest of the week. That would help keep Danny - ever-curious as he was - out of the way of the workers who were rebuilding their home after it had been partially demolished back in April.

"It's a nice, lovely hole in the ground. 'Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat,'" Danny quoted from memory, "We can pretend that the sitting room is our hobbit-hole."

"Ah. Or," his father said conspiratorially.

"Or?" Danny knew that tone of voice, and grinned up at his beloved daddy.

Damien matched his grin. "Or we could build you a proper hobbit-hole."

Danny lit up and he bounced in place. "May we?"

His father swung him up onto his hip. "Let's go out and look for a good place for it. Surveying, they call it."

. . . . .

Victoria Winslow, Agent 003 of MI6, drove up the one-car lane on her way to visit her old friend and former colleague, Damien Drake. She had a couple days of down-time between missions and thought that it would be a nice opportunity to catch up with her friend and his small son. They hadn't had time for a proper conversation the last time they had met in April, and much had happened in the last two years since Damien had retired from active duty.

She pulled over and stopped before she got to their small cottage, however, having spotted something odd off the side of the road. Where there was normally a small, grassy hill, what looked to be an excavation was taking place.

Two very muddy and grubby figures - one tall and lean and the other very small - were digging enthusiastically away at a hole in the side of the hill.

"What are you two up to now?" she called out, getting out of her car.

Damien straightened and laughed at her perplexity.

"We're building Danny a hobbit hole. 'Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell,' but a proper, authentic hobbit hole," he explained, relishing in emphasizing the 'nasty' and 'dirty' words.

Victoria crossed her arms and shook her head. "You're really making the most of your retirement, aren't you?"

Damien gave her the rakish grin that had lured many a woman into his bed. "Would you care to join us, Victoria?"

"You are utterly ridiculous, Damien Drake."

"Aunt Toria!" Danny ran over to her on his short legs and gave her an enthusiastic hug. Victoria hadn't expected the shortening of her name, nor the 'aunt' added to the beginning of it. The momentary pause was long enough for Danny to leave muddy handprints all over the bottom half of her outfit.

Damien, the slimy bastard, didn't say a word to stop his son from messing up the pristine state of her light linen trousers and only laughed at her helplessness.

It wasn't as though she could scold or rebuff the little boy when he greeted her with such ebullience. Well, she could, but she'd feel terribly guilty about it, even though she didn't even like small children. This one was special.

"Oh, dear," Damien said, leaning against his shovel, "Now that you've got mud all over, you don't have a choice but to help us.

Danny cheered.

Victoria's glare at Damien promised retribution once Danny was out of the way.

. . . . .