"Now gentledwarfs and wizard," announced the elderly hobbit, looking about the room with a level glare that would have made a basilisk proud, "as we are all civilised people here I am sure we can resolve this without violence. If you would all be so kind as to vacate my nephew's house, then we should have no quarrel."

The dwarves exchanged glances with one another, looking to Thorin for direction. Balin made a small hand-sign, and Thorin nodded his approval.

"Purely for academic purposes," Balin said slowly, "what would happen if we decided we would prefer to quarrel?"

The elderly hobbit shrugged as though it was no matter to him, though the dwarves noted how the hands of the younger hobbits behind him inched towards slings and cudgels.

"Then we leave you here, but when you attempt to leave, the thirty bounders gathered outside would let loose their arrows on the first dwarven head they saw to poke around the door without a white flag of parley preceding it. Those willing to leave under parley would be escorted to the borders, and all dwarves intending on doing business with the Shire would be asked to look elsewhere until further notice."

Several of the dwarves outright cringed at that statement. The Shire was one of the places in the region with the most surplus food to trade with the dwarves, and they were always willing to pay well for the work of a good smith- as much as hobbits were generally disinterested in fine jewels or golden trinkets, they were steady buyers of farm implements and cooking pots and whatnot. It was politely never mentioned that though the hobbits were appreciative of dwarven metalwork, they could live without it a great deal easier than the dwarves of the Blue Mountains could live without the food supplies and livestock they traded for it.

The silence stretched for a long moment, as all parties contemplated this.

"Now, now, Isembard, surely…" Gandalf started to say.

"That will not be necessary," spoke up Thorin, drawing attention from the entire room as he stood up smoothly, wiping his face with one of Bilbo's cloth napkins. "The wizard told us that we would be welcomed here. As it appears he has been less than honest," he sent a glower in Gandalf's direction, "then we will take our leave, rather than strain relations further. I apologise on the behalf of my company for causing distress, and wish to personally apologise to Mister Baggins for the imposition that was made due to false information and false assumptions."

The elderly hobbit looked him up and down, and Thorin felt rather like he was being weighed and measured. It was not a sensation he had felt in the better part of a few decades, and it surprised him that a hobbit of all beings could make him feel like a dwarfling of forty once more.

"Isembard, really…" Gandalf tried again.

The elderly hobbit looked at him with a scowl. "Gandalf, you old coot. Let it go. You gambled, you tried to find a bit of entertainment- oh yes, don't think I don't remember how you are- after all, I haven't forgotten that journey you talked me into going on with the rangers back when I was a callow lad of twenty-seven where you dropped me, without warning, in with their best archers and waited until I had thoroughly shoved both feet in my mouth about my own skills before they punctured my young swollen head quite firmly." (Thorin and the elder dwarves exchanged wary glances. This sounded suspiciously in character for what they themselves had gathered was typical for dealing with the Grey Wizard.)

"And," Isembard continued, "I remember how you did the same in reverse, since they then learned I had a thing or six to show them about how to sneak about. I've never met someone you've dealt with who has not ended as being a generally more capable and useful person after the experience, but on occasion your sense of humour and delight in being the only one with all the answers tends to cause trouble for us lesser mortals in the short term. You quite enjoy dropping people in positions so that they can make a fool of themselves based on assumptions." Isembard smirked in pure vindictive glee. "Well joke's on you, old boy. You managed to fall for one of your own favourite set-ups. Turnabout is fair play and all that."

Gandalf opened his mouth, paused, and then chuckled ruefully. "True enough, old friend. True enough."

Isembard turned then, and looked Thorin Oakenshield in the eye.

"I do not know what madness it is that Gandalf intends to drag you along on, but you seem to be a reasonable enough sort." He paused for a moment, considering. "How much of a rush are you in to get to wherever it is you all are going?"

Thorin was unsure why the hobbit was asking. "Our quest is for our people. We make due haste in the hopes that the sooner we succeed, the sooner we can begin rebuilding," he said.

Isembard nodded thoughtfully. "Ah. I thought you might be that Thorin Oakenshield. So then. What exactly is your plan for getting past the dragon then?"

It was probably just as well, Thorin thought faintly, that the company had stopped eating a little while ago, because elsewise that comment might have caused thirteen dwarves to choke on their food.

Dwalin was the first to recover. "Dragon? Why would you think this has anything to do with a dragon?" he tried, but Isembard was having none of it.

"Do me the courtesy of not treating me like a fool," Isembard scoffed. "Lilac Rumble recognised you from the last time you came through on your wandering smithing, and though she might not recognise the significance of your name, she mentioned it in passing to Clover Greenhand, who told my darling Melisande, who told me, and my father was Thain." Thorin's back, habitually stiff, straightened infinitesimally. He had not known that he was in the presence of someone who was the closest the Shire would ever come to a prince, and considering the way this elderly hobbit easily commanded the other hobbits at his back, Thorin knew that Isembard was not the type to have rested on the laurels of his bloodline. Isembard acted as one who was used to being respected, because he had earned it. (Thorin was self-aware enough to know that he acted the same.)

"And because he was Thain," Isembard continued, "dear old Pater made it his business to know the goings-on about Middle Earth, because he considered such things to be like pond-ripples. He used to say that the Shire might be nice and sequestered from most of the world's troubles, tucked away around near a sheltered edge of the pond, but if someone went and dropped a big enough rock, it wouldn't matter how sheltered our corner was, we'd have to ride out the waves just like everyone else. And because that was how my old Pater thought, he made a point of making sure each and every one of his children also knew, so that we could be prepared when the waves came. Smaug attacking Erebor was no pebble, as you damn well know." Isembard shook his head and turned to look directly at Thorin. "You try and tell me that this clandestine quest you and the old coot were intending on dragging my nephew along on," (Balin immediately realised the implication- that Bilbo was the Thain's grandson- and went a little pale behind his beard at the thought of just how much of a diplomatic mistake this might have ballooned into,) "and I will call you a liar, sir, king or not."

Isembard's brow furrowed, and he glowered at the assembled dwarves. "We hobbits might be simple folk, with simple desires, but do not make the mistake of thinking us to be simple-minded as well."

Thorin turned to glare accusingly at Gandalf, who seemed to have gotten over most of his shock, and seemed to have become stuck in rueful amusement. Thorin was unimpressed by this, and resolved that the very moment he did not have an audience, he and the wizard were going to have words.

And from the expressions that the more politically astute of his company were shooting the wizard, (Balin of course, but also Dwalin, who was no fool, the Sons of Groin, Nori, and, to Thorin's mild surprise, Ori and Fili and Kili – it seemed that Balin had picked a worthy apprentice after all, and he sometimes forgot that even though his nephews were troublemakers, they were far from slow on the uptake, Dis would be both smug and proud,) Thorin might not be alone in saying his piece.

He turned back to Isembard to respond to him, but Balin subtly stepped on his foot, so he allowed his most trusted advisor to have his way. (Probably just as well. Balin was far better at smoothing over ruffled feathers than Thorin had ever bothered to be.)

"My apologies, Mister Took," Balin stated evenly. "I did not mean any offence." He smiled wryly. "I'm sure you can imagine why we are not exactly paying the town crier to spread the news of our intentions however."

Isembard merely made a harrumphing sound, clearly unimpressed.

Balin nodded politely, as though Isembard had made an eloquent comment (well, Thorin had to admit, he had got his meaning across rather succinctly,) and proceeded to remind Thorin why Balin was his favourite advisor… "In any case, Tharkun, the one you call Gandalf, assured us that your nephew would be capable of sneaking past Smaug to retrieve something that we need in order to reclaim Erebor," …by throwing the wizard as a sacrificial goat to the increasingly irate-looking hobbit. "Because," Balin continued, nailing the coffin lid down, "he assured us that young Bilbo was a professional burglar looking for excitement."

(Thorin looked out the corner of his eye to see that the amused quirk that had been dwelling at the corner of Gandalf's lips had coincidentally vanished. He tried not to be visibly satisfied with that.)

Isembard Took, in a credible impression of a set of bellows, swelled up.

"GANDALF GREYHAME WHAT BY YAVANNA'S GREEN HILLS WERE YOU THINKING!?" he roared.

(Gandalf was suddenly and starkly reminded of Isembard's ancestor Bullroarer, and if it weren't for the fact that he was hastily trying to figure out a way to not get himself banned from the Shire for the rest of living memory, he might have been nostalgic.)

"He was thinking about the bigger picture, as always," came a wry voice with more than a bit of a creak in it.

Thirteen dwarves and one wizard spun to see that once again, a hobbit had managed to sneak up on them.

This time, apparently through the front door.

(Privately, a number of them were starting to understand why merely being a hobbit was enough to make a superior burglar.)

The speaker was an aged hobbit, who looked to be old enough to be Isembard's mother, and was a good head shorter than the next-tallest hobbit in the room. A white mob-cap sat on her silvery-white curls, and she was straight-backed despite her age. She glided in and sat herself down in a large armchair by the fire, like a queen setting herself upon her throne.

"The trouble with you Big Folk," she continued, unperturbed by their reactions to her presence, "is that you tend to be so caught up in your Bigger Pictures that you forget about the Little Details."

She snapped her fingers, and one of the hobbits who had been backing up Isembard rushed to get her a cup of tea, whilst the venerable hobbit lady continued to speak.

"There is nothing wrong with being preoccupied with the bigger picture in the scheme of things," she said with an air of charitable condescension, "as it does tend to affect us all, however," she eyed Gandalf with a spark of amusement, "when you start making assumptions, that's when the trouble starts."

"Indeed, Mistress Baggins," responded Gandalf, speaking with more respect than any of those present had previously heard him use. "As I told young Bilbo, I rather owe him an apology for my oversight."

Mistress Baggins rolled her eyes. "Oh shush, Gandalf. You're making me feel old. You knew me as Laura when I was still a Grubb."

"Laura then," returned Gandalf with a small smile.

Once lightly steaming teacup with saucer was sitting in her hands, Laura looked about the room, calmly taking in all she saw with sharp, bright eyes.

"Now then, gentledwarves. I was assured by my great-grandson that you were all perfectly capable of civility, appearances aside. So if those of you make the decisions could come over here where I can see you, we can discuss terms."

"Terms, madam?" said Gloin, a little tentatively.

"Yes, dear," said Laura, taking a serene sip of her tea. "You can't have my Tookish Baggins grandson, (my little great-grandson needs him a little too much at the moment, I'm sure you can all see that,) but young Bilbo explained what it was you need, and we put our heads together and decided that if you dwarves can convince me that the purpose of your quest is worthwhile, then I might be able to negotiate with you the conditions of taking along someone who will still fit Gandalf's criteria, but be actually willing."

Gandalf frowned, but not to disagree.

"Who would that be then?" he asked.

Laura cackled, "You'll know soon enough." She sobered. "If these dwarves can tell me a story that will make me think their plan is worth risking my family."

She paused, and sipped delicately at her tea.

"Now then, boys. Convince me."

Balin started talking.

A/N: Those of you who are sticklers for detail will have noticed that in canon, Laura Baggins nee Chubb would have been long dead. However, considering I have already warped time so that Frodo is born 20 or so years earlier, similarly, Laura Baggins survived to live almost as long as Old Took (she's currently 126, and he lived to be 130). Why? Because I could. And because I've decided that what the Shire fanon needs are some more BAMF lady hobbits, and I couldn't go better than a grand old matriarch. Originally the negotiating was done by Isembard, but then he got too cranky, and a cooler head needed to take charge.