The unwanted party within Bilbo's home increased in its liveliness tenfold, it seemed, once Thorin had arrived. Bilbo had given up trying to control the Sons of Durin and resigned himself to glowering at the boisterous men from a corner of the room. Gandalf's newest cigar—the man practically chain smoked the things—created a terrible smoke. The thick gray coils drifted up to the ceiling and then wafted outwards to the rest of the room. The smell that came along with it was terrible. It was foul and foreign and Bilbo knew without a measure of a doubt that it would take months of work before the smell dissipated completely from his home. Tears blurred his vision, not because he was particularly sad, but because his eyes were attempting to protect themselves from the stinging smoke. Knowing he probably looked like a tearful, red faced mess, Bilbo glared even harder at the hoard of men sitting across the room from him.

"So, Thorin-lad," Balin said once a raucous row of laughter died off, "What's the news from Ered Luin? Did they all come?" Ered Luin, Bilbo repeated the words silently over his tongue. That sounded familiar . . . if he wasn't mistaken that was the name of a town up north, practically straddling the state line. It used to be one of the economic centers for the country—Motor City, that's what people would call it, but then the stock market—or, Bilbo thought, maybe not. That didn't sound right. Something crashed, and all the factories that once supplied the country with fine motor vehicles closed down and, with it, so did the entire town. Now a days all the town was good for was strip mining. A horrible, ecological nightmare if Bilbo ever knew one.

"Yeah," Thorin said, not looking up from his drink—a large cup of Bilbo's finest brandy—his face showed no expression, negative or otherwise. "All the heads of the families were there. All seven of them," now Thorin twisted his neck with a grimace. No one seemed to mind his behavior, though, because all the men began mumbling to one another excitedly.

"And what did they say?" Dwalin asked slowly, bringing the group's focus back onto Thorin. "Is Dain with us?" Whoever this Dain was, Bilbo mused, he must be important, because the group had yet to be so quiet, watching their leader with baited breath.

Thorin sighed, trying to steel himself for whatever was about to come, glanced quickly around the room before returning his sight to the drink before him and said, "They will not come." Although the mumbles around the table turned solemn, no one seemed too shocked or outraged that these people from Ered Luin—whoever they were—weren't coming. "They say," Thorin continued, "that we got ourselves into this mess . . . and that it's up to us to get out of it."

Some faces turned indignant, but no one voiced their thoughts. Curiosity had always been a temptation for Bilbo. Ever since he was a small ankle biter he'd been sticking his nose into places it didn't belong. His father used to tell him 'curiosity killed the cat', but then his mother would always swoop in after and follow up with, 'but satisfaction brought it back'. So when he heard his voice ask, "What sort of mess?" He hoped to whatever higher power there might be that his mother was in the right all along.

Gandalf, who'd been suspiciously quiet throughout this whole ordeal, perked up at Bilbo's question. A light shimmered behind his eyes and he even brought the cigar away from his mouth. "Bilbo!" He said loudly, acting as if he'd forgotten Bilbo had been in the room at all. Holding back a scoff, Bilbo doubted that the old man forgot anything—ever. "Could you be so kind as to turn some more lights on?"

"Ah, right," he said, immediately standing up to perform his host duties—even though he'd never agreed to be a host in the first place.

Gandalf reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick, blue folded up piece of paper. He began to unfold them and said, "Perhaps this will raise your dampened spirits, Thorin Oakenshield," he placed the papers before Thorin, the now brighter lights making the markings easier to read. "Something to help you sort through this so called mess."

"The Lonely Mountain," Bilbo read out as he peaked around Thorin's shoulder. It was blue prints to some building. A business, if Bilbo had to guess.

"Ah!" Gloin, a thicker, read headed man shouted, "My horoscope said 'now's the time to act'! Just this morning, it did!" A few other men groaned.

"It's true!" Oin, Gloin's cousin—or so Bilbo thought—agreed. "Our scouts have seen activity sparking up again! Low risk gambling, street races, underground fighting! He couldn't keep us out forever! As we knew he couldn't! The reign of the beast will come to an end!"

Bilbo, who'd been off to the side of the room, adjusting a small mason jar of honey to face out properly, stilled in his movement. When he turned around, he immediately looked to Gandalf, who in turn was looking at him. Now, though, instead of a glimmer behind his eyes, Gandalf looked worried. Almost unsure of himself. Like he didn't know what Bilbo would do. "What beast?" He asked.

"Well that would be a common nickname for Smaug Whivern, also known as 'The Dragon'," a man with an obnoxiously large hat—Bilbo thought his name started with a 'B'—informed him plainly. His eyes were half lidded and he was smoking a cigarette like he had no care in the world. "Smaug the Terrible," he continued, "greatest and worst calamity of our age." Everyone around him was trying to give him non-verbal clues to shut up, but the man—Bofur! That's his name—wasn't picking up on their hints. "Realtor, developer. Fraud and arson. Blackmailer and rumored kidnapper. Known for stealing—"

"Yes, thank you, I know what a crooked businessman is."

One of the younger men, an awkward looking lad whose facial hair hadn't grown in evenly, stood up quickly making the legs of his chair screech against the wood floor, "I'm not afraid!" He declared proudly, "I'll give him a taste of Iron Jackson!" He smirked as he patted down his hip. Something bulged out against his clothing, and Bilbo assumed that was the name of the young man's gun. The group laughed, some nervously, others endearingly, and the boy's older brother grabbed his arm and yanked him back into his seat.

"It would be difficult enough with proper reinforcement and resources," Balin chastised, "but we're just thirteen men. Not thirteen of the best, nor brightest." He ended on a despairing note. Most of the group retaliated, not liking those comments. The three youngest men, and possibly the wildest, began shouting over the rest's noise, though Bilbo wasn't sure the brunet one was even shouting real words at all.

"There may not be many of us," Fili said, slamming a fist down on the table and rattling the silverware. There was a sharp look in his eyes, like he knew what he was saying was important and knew that everyone would listen, "but we're fighters! Every one of us! To the last man!"

He slapped his hand down again, and Kili picked off where his brother left off, "And you're all forgetting that we have a detective on our side!" He nodded to Gandalf, which greatly surprised Bilbo. What sort of detective—or man of the law, for that matter—socialized with known criminals? Maybe, Bilbo considered, it was part of some sting operation. "Gandalf has taken down hundreds of dirty businessmen in his time!"

Before the agreeing mutters could get well and fully underway, Gandalf raised his hand and shook his head slightly, "Well, now, I—I—I wouldn't say—"

"How many, then?" Dori, the older brother from before, asked.

"What?" Gandalf asked blankly.

"How many businessmen have you arrested?"

Thorin turned his head to look at Gandalf. His eyes narrowed into such small slits the icy blue color was barely visible any longer. Gandalf faked coughed awkwardly to give himself some time to think, "Go on," Dori goaded, "give us a number!" Then, it seemed, all hell broke loose. Everyone stood, their chairs screeching painfully against the floor, and began shouting, yelling, pointing, and spitting. It was horrible. Bilbo wanted to call the police, but then he realized with horror, that technically the police were already there, thanks to Gandalf.

"Ex—excuse me," Bilbo tried to break up the fighting, but he could barely hear his own voice over the rabble, "please, please—"

"Quiet!" Thorin yelled straight from his diaphragm. He sprung to his feet—gloriously, he did not cause his chair to screech—and at once the yelling at the table ceased. Bilbo's mouth popped open with awe. He couldn't believe just one man could have such an effect over the whole room. "If we have noticed these . . . signs, do you think other won't have noticed as well?" The simple logic of his words sunk in to all the men. Some looked abashed, while others looked angry at the thought.

"The rumors have begun. The Dragon has not been seen working in Erebor for nearly a decade. The eyes of our enemies look to the Durin stronghold, wondering if now is the time to loot. Wondering if our treasures have been left unprotected. Do we do nothing? While others go in and steal what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?" Now yelling, shouting, and spitting of a different kind have begun.

Motivated by Thorin's words, the men began to chant, "Baruk Khazâd!" Over and over they chanted it while slamming their fists and cups down onto Bilbo's poor dining room table. He didn't understand what the words meant—didn't even know what language was being spoken—but he could feel the exhilaration and adrenaline buzzing through the air. It made him feel almost giddy.

"Forget it!" Balin—the buzz killer, apparently—shouted over them. Everyone sat back into their seats to listen to him. "The front gate is sealed. Smaug built a solid fence around the place and even reinforced it with barbed wire. There is no way into the Mountain."

"That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true," Gandalf smiled sly and pulled out what looked like an old, brass key. Bilbo would even swear that the circle on the end resembled a skeleton. Flipping it over in between his fingers, he flaunted it in front of Thorin. Thorin looked flabbergasted. Like he'd never seen something so amazing and impossible in all his life.

"Where'd you get that?"

"It was given to me by your father. By Thrain. For safe keeping." Bilbo highly doubted that. Gandalf didn't seem like the 'safe keeping' type.

"That key," Thorin said, "is my father's—?"

"Your father's skeleton key? Yes. He gave it to me just before . . . well, just before." Gandalf fake coughed again, and then took a long drag from his cigar. He extended his hand closer to Thorin, "It's yours now."

"If there's a key," Fili said with a tone of confusion. His brow was furrowed, like he didn't understand. "Then there must be a door," Bilbo coughed over a snort, "but those were bricked over, weren't they?"

"The ones Smaug knew about, yes," Gandalf nodded. He tapped the blueprints in front of Thorin with the crumbling tip of his cigar, "These prints are the originals, however, and if you take a look over here, you'll see the hall way for a secret passage leading out of the cellar and into another building."

Kili patted his brother on his back, a naively hopefully smile on his face. It made him look much younger—so young, Bilbo rubbed his eyes and wondered what the boy's age really was. "There's another way in," he said. His voice was so quiet and subdued, so opposite of how he usually spoke.

"If . . . we can find it," Gandalf admitted, "The prints don't tell us which building it leads to. Without the other building's prints it'll be practically invisible. The answer must be somewhere on another blue print. Perhaps this one's twin. Now, I did not have the clearance to find it, but there are others in the city . . . who can." Thorin's expression turned cloudy, a realization burned behind his eyes as he looked up at Gandalf, but he stayed silent.

"The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and an even greater amount of courage." He turned his head to look at Bilbo who looked right back, not comprehending the meaning behind the movement. "But," he continued, "I believe with the right amount of determination, we can do it."

"That's why we need a burglar!" Ori, the one with the patchy beard spoke up again, pointing at Bilbo.

Bilbo, however, had been looking down at the blue prints of The Lonely Mountain and hummed in agreement, "And a good one, too!" he commented, "An expert, probably."

"And are you?" Gloin's inquisitive voice asked.

Bilbo slowly looked up to see Gloin staring right at him. Confused, he blinked and bounced back on his feet a bit, unconsciously trying to put space between them. Assuming Gloin couldn't be talking to him, he glanced behind his shoulder. Surely someone had stood up while he wasn't paying attention and snuck up behind him. Seeing no one, Bilbo felt he should clarify, "Am I what?"

"He said he's an expert!" Oin cheered, causing some light hearted chuckles.

"Me? No—no, no, I'm not a burglar! I've never stolen a thing in my life!" Unless you counted that one time he stole a baby bottle pop from the mall, but really—he'd been six.

"Yes," Balin agreed, "He's not really burglar material," he looked Bilbo up and down and then looked across the table to his brother, Dwalin, "is he?"

Bilbo nodded, pleased someone was seeing sense . . . even if that someone made him feel oddly small while doing it. "Ah," Dwalin nodded, "gang fights over territory is no place for such a . . . delicate person. Especially one who looks like he can hardly throw a punch, much less take one." There were more mutters of agreement, but also some shouts of contradiction. Bilbo gave Dwalin a thumb up and a single nod of his head. He didn't care what the man said about him—in fact, he was right, Bilbo couldn't throw a punch—so long as they agreed they didn't need his help.

"Enough!" Gandalf shouted, standing up to his full height. His head brushed against the ceiling and his cigar fell to the ground in an ashy mess. "If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he shall be!" Bilbo opened his mouth to refute that statement, but was struck dumb by the sheer force that emanated off Gandalf. "You need someone who can think quickly on their feet, weave a lie so perfectly it'd make a spider proud, and quiet enough that no one will hear them sneak on past! And while Smaug and his men know about the Sons of Durin and what you all look like, he'll never be expecting a non-threatening, middle class man! Nor, would I imagine, even look twice at him! This gives us a distinct advantage.

"You asked me," he said to Thorin, sitting back down. Bilbo blinked several times in a row. Was the room beginning to spin? And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his tongue to work and swallow properly. "To find the fourteenth member of this entourage and I've found him: Bilbo Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest," Thorin rolled his eyes and turned his gaze outwards to his men, locking eyes with Balin. "And he has more to offer than any of you know!" He side eyed Bilbo, "Even himself."

Bilbo reared back at the words, feeling both offended and please simultaneously. Gandalf leaned closer to Thorin, looked him straight in the eyes, and said, "Trust me."

"Fine," Thorin said monotonously, "We'll do this your way."

"What?" Bilbo panicked, bouncing up onto the balls of his feet to try and grab Thorin's attention. "N—no, no—"

"Get him the contract," Thorin ordered.

"What?" Bilbo's head swam. What was even happening?

Balin stood up, a thick roll of paper in his hand, "Here's your standard contract," he held it out for Bilbo, "just stating protocol for out of pocket expenses, time required, services rendered, funeral arrangements," he nodded blandly, "so forth."

Thorin grabbed the outstretched contract from Balin's hand and flung it behind him, slapping it into Bilbo's chest. "Funeral arrangements?" Bilbo repeated. He turned, unfolded the entirety of the contract, and began to read. "Oh," he sighed, he thought he heard Thorin mumble something to Gandalf behind him, but he paid them no mind. His thoughts were entirely on the words in front of him. "One-fourteenth of the total profit, if any," he hummed, that actually didn't sound too bad, "seems fair." He mumbled the rest of the contract aloud, beneath his breath, as his feet turned him in slow circles. "Wait a minute," he muttered, there was a part of the contract that veered off page quite comically, if the words weren't so dark. He turned the pages sideways to get a better read, "Lacerations?" Well, that didn't sound nice. "Evisceration?" How would one even get eviscerated? Reading the next word he stopped and looked at the gang still sitting calmly in his dining room, "Incineration?"

"Oh, yes," Bofur nodded, "He's not called The Dragon for nothing, you know. He'll melt the flesh right off your bones if he catches you."

Bilbo looked up to his ceiling for a moment, but finding no answers there he looked down to the floor, "Hah," he squeaked.

"You all right, son?" Balin's voice called out.

Placing his hand on his knees, Bilbo tried to steady his breathing, but ended up pushing out several more bursts of air than he was drawing in. "Oh, yes, right," he said, never one to draw attention to himself over something like an illness or light headedness, "Just feeling a bit faint." He was beginning to feel a bit better, after all. The dizziness would pass soon.

Then Bofur decided to speak again, "Think pig on a fire spit, then replace the pig with yourself."

"I—I need some air," Bilbo self-medicated calmly, trying to ignore Bofur. The worst part was, Bilbo suspected Bofur actually thought he was helping. The man—for a gang member, it seemed—didn't have a malicious bone in his body.

"Bright light," he continued, "searing pain, then death!"

Bilbo exhaled some more air then looked up at Bofur. He would be fine. Totally fine. He repeated this to himself over and over again. Opening his mouth to tell everyone that much, he felt all the blood rush from his head and with a crisp, "Nope," he fell back onto the floor and passed out cold.

A/N: Please review :)