Later that afternoon, Bilbo made the somewhat treacherous walk down the steep road and into town. Had he not walked so many forest trails during his time in Ann Arbor, it would have given him a bit of grief, but being as accustomed as he was to rough terrain it was quite enjoyable. He had always appreciated fresh air and a nice view, and it would be nice to get in a few good walks before the snow returned.
Gandalf's unhelpfulness was forgiven almost the moment Main Street came into view. Part of Bilbo knew it was meant to attract tourists, but he allowed himself to be enchanted by the locally-owned shops with crystals hanging in the windows, the rainy-day cafés with colorful flags announcing they were open, and the bookstores - oh, the bookstores! Just in his short walk Bilbo passed one that sold rare books, one with used books, one with new books and an attached tea room, and a library to boot. Bilbo promised himself he would explore them after he got some food in his stomach.
Despite being in the very heart of the town, nature was not out of mind. The forest backed right up to every building, and beyond that were snow-capped peaks, birdsong mingling with the chatter of pedestrians.
A little ways down on a side-road intersecting Main Street, Bilbo found the perfect place to eat: The Broken Table. The fresh-baked-bread smell alone was enough to draw him in.
With the clanging bell on the door announcing he had entered, he wondered for a moment if he'd walked into someone's living room. There were plushy couches and massive armchairs in lieu of booths, all in a jumble with coffee tables in between so it was impossible to sit alone. And the smell was even more magnificent inside, but not overwhelming or artificial. Now Bilbo could detect notes of sharp cheddar, roast beef, and baked potatoes that made his mouth water.
Despite the homey atmosphere, nothing seemed unprofessional. All the furniture somehow matched despite the differing patterns, and there was a custom-made wooden sign at the front instructing him to please order at the counter and take a seat. Behind said counter was a man who made Bilbo think of a very fat ginger cat he used to own.
Upon approaching the counter, the man looked Bilbo up and down and realization seemed to dawn in his big brown eyes. Before Bilbo could say anything, the man pointed to an item on the menu propped up against the cash register, and began typing it into the computer immediately after. Squinting, Bilbo read "French Onion Soup w/Bread Bowl".
"Oh, yes, good, okay," he muttered almost to himself, glancing at the employee's name tag which read "Owner - Bombur". Having his food chosen for him was a confusing experience, but he supposed it was some kind of chef's intuition. He wasn't about to complain, in any case, afraid to commit some faux pas that might exist in this small town or anger the owner. A scene from Seinfeld came to mind.
"I'll make this myself," Bombur spoke for the first time, with a Scottish accent so thick Bilbo almost couldn't understand him. With a smile that was barely visible beneath his thick red beard, Bombur waddled back to the kitchen, leaving Bilbo behind to stammer out a thank-you and find his seat.
He chose a worn leather armchair near the window, keeping his distance from the group sitting closer to the fireplace, all talking and laughing together. Picking up one of the National Geographic magazines sitting on the nearest coffee table, he let himself settle in.
When the waiter came by not ten minutes later, Bilbo was so engrossed in a story about a photographer in the Himalayas that he didn't notice at first.
"Mister Boggins?"
The cheery voice sent his head snapping up, greeted by the sight of a man in his twenties wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and a white apron tied haphazardly around his waist. The stranger was grinning dazzlingly like he and Bilbo were old friends, and also like he had a camera pointed at him.
"French onion bread bowl for you." The young man set down a large plateful of food on the coffee table at Bilbo's feet, sweeping his dark hair out of his eyes as he straightened up. Most of his hair was pulled back into a bun, but some had managed to escape at the front.
"Thank you - how do you almost know my name?" Bilbo managed to ask, still reeling a bit from the waiter's enthusiasm and familiar manner. Surely it couldn't be such a small town that news of him had already spread enough to include a name.
"I almost know quite a lot of things! Those are weird shoes you're wearing."
Bilbo, momentarily distracted, glanced down at his own feet.
"Oh, they're called FiveFingers, they're supposed to be better for your feet." The truth was that Bilbo had never liked wearing shoes, even as a child, and these were the only kind he could stand.
The waiter, whose name tag read "Kíli", took a seat on the arm of the couch across from Bilbo, apparently forgetting that he was on the clock.
"Seems like it would hurt, there's no padding," he laughed. "And you can't wear them in cold weather, can you?"
"No, you can't," Bilbo sighed sadly. He wouldn't be able to wear the form-fitting shoes much here, with winter weather that lasted from September through May. "But I've gone on lots of trails with them, I've had no problem with soreness."
"You like hiking?"
"I've not done a lot of hiking, just forest trails mostly. But yes, I enjoy it."
"My brother Fíli works at the nature center up the road, he could show you some great trails around here. Well, he can show you on a map, he can't take you on them. You'll see when you meet him." He smirked like there was some inside joke Bilbo wasn't in on.
"Fíli and Kíli?" Bilbo laughed lightly. Kíli's brow furrowed.
"Yes, those are our names."
"Well, that's a bit funny, isn't it?"
Brown eyes squinted at him, uncomprehending.
"Never mind," Bilbo muttered, exhaling awkwardly. "So, how did you know my n-"
"Order up!" Bombur called from the front counter, and Kíli all but sprang to his feet.
"Nice talking to you, mister Boggins!" He called with a cheeky grin, weaving his way expertly through the jumble of chairs and tables.
Bilbo grumbled to himself for a moment, slowly learning why Gandalf liked it here so much and why he hadn't been driven away yet by angry townspeople. The people here were just as annoying as him.
And yet, they were wonderful, Bilbo decided when he got a good look at the spread before him. The bread bowl was massive, and hadn't gone soggy at all even though it had been sitting out for a few minutes, still steaming and wafting wonderful smells into the air. Fresh peas and carrots were piled on the side; Kíli had even brought him a glass of milk.
Bilbo had finished that story about the photographer in the Himalayas and another about a woman who lived in the Sahara for a year by the time he was done eating. The food had tasted as good as it looked, and left Bilbo comfortably full. When he went up to the counter to pay, Bombur just smiled and shook his head, much to Bilbo's confusion.
"Already paid," the Scotsman insisted with a smile, waving his hand in refusal as Bilbo tried to hand over his card.
"No I haven't," he said dumbly, hand still outstretched.
"Yes, already paid. Next customer."
There was a couple standing behind Bilbo now, waiting in line, and with a strangled sigh of resignation and confusion he stepped aside for them.
Had news of a new resident really spread so fast that people knew his face and (almost) name within a day of his arrival? This was a tourist town, it wasn't as if they didn't get new people coming in all the time, most just didn't stay for long. And why would that warrant him a free meal, in any case?
Well, Bombur hadn't said it was free, or on the house - he had said it was already paid. Did someone in the restaurant find him attractive and pay for his meal? Did that actually happen? Bilbo quickly banished the idea from his mind. He was nearing fifty years old and could stand to lose a few pounds - it wasn't something he would change about himself, but it didn't exactly make him boyfriend material.
Bilbo was jolted from his thoughts upon hearing the jangle of wind chimes. He had walked into a bookstore, the one with the attached tea room, and the sudden rush of warm air made him realize how cold it had gotten outside. The sun had begun to set while he was eating, and now his light cardigan wasn't doing much to keep him warm. If he wanted to get home before the walk home made him freeze he'd have to leave very soon.
But the crisp, warm smell of leather, books, and tea drew him further inside despite his better judgement. The shelves couldn't have been more than a foot and a half apart and the floor creaked underfoot, the quiet hum of voices and flipping of pages making a lovely ambience.
Quickly locating a section of leather-bound classics, Bilbo slid out a copy of The Complete Collection of Sherlock Holmes, scanning the table of contents.
"The History of East Asian Explosives, now that looks interesting," said a muffled voice from behind the shelf Bilbo was facing.
"You already know all about that, get something different," grumbled a deeper, gruffer voice. It was their accents that pulled Bilbo from his reading - both Scottish, not as thick as Bombur's, but still a strange coincidence. Even the waiter Kíli had an English accent, now that he thought about it. What kind of town was this?
"Like you can talk, with your shelf of motorcycle books at home."
"That's for work."
"If it were for work you'd have more books on cars, brother. You see a motorcycle at the shop once in a blue moon, unless it's yours."
This was met with a grunt, followed by heavy footsteps as one of them rounded the shelf to where Bilbo was standing. The man looked like exactly the kind of person you'd expect to own a motorcycle: bald, but sporting a bristly beard, with tattoos across his head and impressive forearms. Suddenly Bilbo was very aware of his five-foot-tall, decidedly non-muscular build. The man gave a short laugh that strongly contradicted his grizzly appearance, his eyes crinkling with a smile.
"I found him, Balin - that sure didn't take long," he called to his brother, gaze still fixed on Bilbo.
A soft shuffling was heard and Balin appeared, snow white eyebrows raised expectantly. His expression quickly shifted into a smile upon seeing Bilbo.
"And wonderful it is to meet you, Mr. Baggins," he said cordially, extending a hand which Bilbo shook, dumbfounded. Balin looked like Santa Claus (if Santa Claus had a massive nose), complete with the red coat, and with his brother wearing a green parka they looked like Christmas.
"Nice to meet you too," Bilbo said flatly, eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on.
"I'm Balin, and this is my brother Dwalin." He gestured to the taller of the two, who gave a stoic nod.
Surely he was dreaming. There was no way real people acted like this. Bilbo wasn't even going to ask about the names.
"If you don't mind me asking, how do you know who I am? I've been here four hours, tops." He tried to make it sound polite, but if anything it came out exasperated.
"Oh! Right, I thought you would know - Gandalf sent us a photo of you, so we'd know who to look for.
Dwalin already had his phone unlocked and turned the screen for Bilbo to see. A group text was open, with too many names for Bilbo to read, and the most recent message was a picture from Gandalf of Bilbo sitting at his table drinking tea while staring out the window. A bubble below it read "Bilbo Baggins in all his glory - give him a warm welcome."
"I knew he took a picture of me!" He hissed. Suddenly everything made sense, the strangers knowing his name and face - Gandalf had probably told Bombur what he would want to eat should visit his restaurant, and paid for it too. "If you don't mind me asking, who is the 'us' he sent that to?"
"Our family," Dwalin said with something akin to fondness in his voice.
"We make up about half the town," Balin added. "Pretty much anyone short and bearded is one of ours."
Everyone seemed tall to Bilbo, even Balin who couldn't have been more than five-two.
"Half the town, that's a pretty big family!" After his parents' passing, Bilbo had no close family to speak of, and he didn't know whether to feel jealous or piteous.
"Aye - well most of us aren't related by blood, but we're as close as family," Balin smiled.
"I'm guessing Kíli, Fíli and Bombur are yours?"
"Oh yes! Fíli and Kíli are my grandsons, and Bombur is my nephew. By bond, anyway. You've been to the Broken Table, then?"
"I've just left. It's a very nice place."
"It is. We often have big dinners there after closing time, if we're not at Glóin's."
"You should come," Dwalin rumbled. "The rest of the family should meet you." Balin nodded his agreement.
Bilbo had enjoyed the few dinner parties he'd been to, but usually he knew the hosts for much longer before he was invited. For a moment all he could do in response was furrow his brow and let his mouth gape uncertainly.
"Wondering why we're taking to you so quickly?" Balin asked knowingly. Bilbo nodded. "Well, you now live in somewhat of a no-man's-land between us and the Greenwoods. I'm sure you noticed the houses. We'd hate for you to be caught up in their affairs-"
"It's getting late," Dwalin interrupted softly, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We should let Mr. Baggins be getting home before the drive up gets too treacherous. He can learn about the local politics once he's more settled in."
"Of course, my apologies - I was getting ahead of myself." Balin laughed and shook his head.
"Actually I walked into town, so yes I should be getting back," Bilbo agreed. As interesting as the story behind the different houses sounded, the side of him that kept wondering what kind of potentially dangerous wildlife came out at night won over.
"You walked?" Balin repeated, flyaway white eyebrows raising. Dwalin gave a quiet laugh that made Bilbo uneasy. "And you haven't got a coat? You'll freeze before you get home."
"Especially with those shoes," Dwalin muttered, a hint of a smile twitching his mustache. Bilbo straightened himself up indignantly. There was nothing wrong with his shoes.
"Let us drive you home, laddie," Balin implored.
Did people in this town inherently trust each other immediately upon meeting? First the invitation to dinner and now this. Perhaps it was Gandalf's judgement they trusted so doubtlessly, but they knew next to nothing about Bilbo even so.
Bilbo appraised the two of them - Dwalin looked like the kind if person who belonged to a motorcycle gang, and while Balin didn't immediately come off as such, he had the potential to be a creepy old man who tried to lure you in, Hansel-and-Gretel-style.
But as much as Bilbo argued with himself, the fact remained that it was freezing outside. He gave a helpless sort of shrug and half-nod, and the next thing he knew he was squeezed on the bench seat of Dwalin's pickup truck.
"Sorry about the tight fit," Balin said next to him over the roar of the engine. He was pressed in the middle, with Dwalin driving and Bilbo getting far too acquainted with the passenger side door. He checked at least three times that it was securely locked.
"It's better than a motorcycle." Bilbo wasn't positive if he was trying to reassure himself or Balin.
"Oh no, he doesn't drive that infernal thing in the winter, do you brother?"
"Of course not, too dangerous." But the wink Dwalin gave Bilbo over Balin's head told a different story.
Bilbo didn't even have to give them directions to his cottage; Dwalin was pulling into the gravel driveway within five minutes. As soon as Bilbo opened the door and relieved the pressure on his chest from being squeezed in, he felt in a better mood.
"Thank you again for the ride, it was very nice to meet you," he said with a genuine smile. The icy air was already seeping through his cardigan.
"Anytime, laddie. We live just up the road, it wasn't out of the way," Balin said genially. Bilbo took a moment to appreciate that in this case "up the road" was an expression as well as the actual direction. "Come visit anytime."
"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Baggins," Dwalin nodded, putting the truck into gear.
Bilbo pushed the massive door shut and waved them off as the great black shape backed out of his driveway. Turning back to the house, he silently cursed this wretchedly cold mountain air.
He had left the windows open the whole time he was gone; his bed would be as cold as the dirt under his feet.
Dwalin and Balin rumbled up the steep road in silence until Balin turned to smile at his younger brother.
"He's perfect for him," he stated, watching Dwalin's mustache twitch from his smile.
"Absolutely perfect," he agreed.