Bilbo's eyes fluttered open and for one blissful moment he thought he'd imagined everything. Gandalf, the strange men running a muck in his house, Gandalf, reading a terribly long contract that detailed his possible demise, Gandalf, and the description of a man named Smaug . . . oh, and Gandalf. Unfortunately for Bilbo, his one blissful moment ended quite abruptly when Gandalf's half concerned, half exasperated face loomed over his own. "I'm all right," Bilbo said gruffly as he blinked several more times and attempted to slowly sit up. "I'm all right," he felt the back of his head where it hit the floor. There would be a terrible lump on it by tomorrow morning, he was sure. Perhaps if he iced it before he went to bed he could lessen the swelling some. Shaking his head, he said once more, "I'm all right. I just need to sit down, I believe."

Several rough hands—accompanied by short, stubby fingers—grabbed at his chest and shoulders in what he believed was an attempt to help move him somewhere more comfortable. Distantly, Bilbo understood they were trying to be kind, but he could hardly appreciate their meaning when the means were adding more bruises to his already banged up body. Eventually though, his aching bones came into contact with the soft cushions of his wing chair and let out a moan of appreciation. "Perhaps," Gandalf's low voice sounded from behind him, "we should give our burglar some space." There were a few mumbles of agreement, and with just a few more loud shuffling feet, the Sons of Durin all cleared out of Bilbo's living room—probably, he mused, to raid what was left of his kitchen cabinets.

Wiggling his shoulders up and down, Bilbo snuggled deeper into the chair's cushioned back with a small, contented smile on his lips. Feeling Gandalf's gaze on him, even with his eyes closed once more in an attempt at rest, Bilbo felt the need to clarify, "Oh yes, I should be fine after a bit of rest."

"A bit of rest?" Gandalf barked out a laugh as he spoke, causing Bilbo's brows to furrow and eyes to open so he could look at Gandalf's pinched face. "That's all you've been doing, so it seems!" He began to pace up and down the length of the room. "What happened to you?" He mumbled to himself. "Since when did doilies, fine china, and your grandmother's dining room table become the most important things in your life? What happened to that small child I knew who'd play outside until long after the sun set?"

"I'm sorry," Bilbo tried to interrupt, "Have we met before—?"

Gandlaf wasn't listening, though, "Who tore up his clothes and came home with an inch of dirt packed into his hair?" He continued the tirade. "What happened to Belladonna Took's son?"

"What do you—How dare you—Why would you—What's my mother got to do with anything?" Bilbo asked petulantly as his bottom lip jutted out and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Your mother, Bilbo Baggins, was one of the best thieves there ever was! That's what she's got to do with this!"

"My mother was not a thief!" Bilbo screeched, his cheeks turning red with the half lie that just popped out from his mouth. "She was a gardener, and a respectable member of the community, thank you very much!"

Gandalf's eyes narrowed with suspicion, "I believe we both know that statement to be only half true. Hmm, Bilbo?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was, after all, sentenced to community service when she was sixteen for stealing a car."

"W—what?" Bilbo sputtered, "How did you—"

"And the only reason she got off on just community service," Gandalf's voice rose, drowning out Bilbo's protest, "was because it was her first offense. Or," he paused, a wry glint shining behind his eyes, "perhaps 'first known offense' would be more apt."

"How do you know all this?" Bilbo hissed. His patience with the old man had worn thin. "My mother was seventeen at the time and was tried in juvenile court. Those records are sealed."

"Ah," Gandalf nodded almost solemnly, "Yes, they are. But that fact is neither here nor there considering I heard the details straight from the horses mouth, hmm?" he stopped to let out a wheezing chuckle, "You'll see, Bilbo my boy, you'll have a tale of our own to tell when you come back."

"Can you promise that I will come back?" Bilbo tilted his head and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He was waiting for Gandalf's response—waiting for him to lie.

"No." He shook his head, "And if you do, you will not be the same."

Bilbo nodded and reaffirmed his answer with a sharp, crisp tone, "That's what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf, but I can't sign this," he jerked his head to the contract that lay flat on the coffee table before him. "You've got the wrong man."

Sighing, Gandalf's eyes creased with disappointment, "Then I'm afraid you will regret your decision for the rest of your life." Bilbo turned his face away, refusing to look at the other man any longer and closed his eyes. He heard Gandalf shuffle out of the room and then heard him mumble a few words. Scrunching up his face, he next heard Thorin and Balin's low voices join in, but no matter how hard he concentrated, Bilbo couldn't make out more than a few words. He thought he heard the words 'wealth', 'Erebor', and 'grandfather', but if hard pressed he couldn't' say for certain. Shaking his head in defeat, Bilbo stood up, readjusted the ties of his robe, and bee lined to his room with the hopes that by the time he woke up in the morning, all those strange men—those gangsters—would be gone from his house; leaving him to clean and repair it in peace.

It was difficult for Bilbo to fall asleep with all the rowdy laughter and the sounds of large items slamming against other large items—Bilbo could only imagine what—not to mention the crashing noises of glass breaking. Yes, there were many reasons why sleep stayed away for most of the night. So when the morning sun's rays peeked through the gap in his curtains an woke him up, he stared up at his ceiling in confusion for several, long minutes. It was quiet. Eerily quiet. He couldn't hear the shuffling of feet outside his door, not a single hacking cough after smoking a cigarette, not even a hint of a chuckle could be heard.

Flinging his sheets off his body, Bilbo threw on his robe and with quick, quiet feet he exited his room to peek out into the hallway. Seeing nothing and no one, he tentatively stepped further out into his home. The house was almost eerily normal. Everything was back into its original place. His kitchen cabinet, though much emptier than it was twenty four hours ago, neatly stored the leftovers that had been, just last night, scattered and thrown about the kitchen. Getting on his knees to check the floor below his dining room table, Bilbo could see barely a trace amount of scuff marks from when the gangsters pushed their chairs out. He couldn't even find anything that had been broken! No picture frame glass, mirrors, vases—there wasn't even any shattered pieces left in his trash bin, but Bilbo knew he heard several crashes last night. Humming to himself and scratching his head, Bilbo looked around his terribly empty apartment and felt an almost hollow feeling in his chest.

"Hello?" He called out, his voice small and tinted with just a hint of hope. He wasn't sure what he was hoping for, exactly. He knew no one else was in the house. He'd searched every crack and crevice himself, so he'd gotten what he'd wanted. He'd gotten his house back. What more could he hope for? Except, he thought as he wandered aimlessly down his hallways, except his house was awfully lonesome now that he was all alone. Wandering back down into his sitting room Bilbo stood in the archway and rocked back and forth between the heels and balls of his feet, trying to think of what to do next. He bit his lip and though about grabbing his dust rag and having a go at his books and nick-knacks, but the place looked spotless—even more than it was before.

Myrtle cried out softly from her sitting place on his kitchen table, gently reminding Bilbo to feed her breakfast. "Ah, of course," he mumbled under his breath before scurrying over to the cabinet below his kitchen sink where he kept the wet cat food. Spooning the contents out into Myrtle's dish, he placed the food on the ground and kissed Myrtle on her head, "Silly kitten, what do you think you're doing? You know better than to get up on tables," he gave her one last affectionate ear rub before placing her down in front of the bowl. Standing back up he saw a crumpled up paper now in the place Myrtle was just resting. "Oh?" He picked it up and belated realized it was the contract he read last night. "Oh." He puffed out his cheeks and pursed his lips in thought. What did he really have to lose if he went on this adventure, he wondered? He had no family left—save for Lobelia, and lord knows she doesn't really count—to depend on him or worry about him. The only living left to depend on him, in fact, was his cat, and he could just leave a note for his gardener about feeding and litter box instructions. His house, so very large and fine, felt terribly empty now that he knew what a full house sounded and felt like. And yes, he thought, this adventure—his very first adventure, and gosh, didn't that set off his heart like a dose of adrenaline—would be dangerous. It could, in fact, be his last adventure as well as his first, but—brows furrowing with determinations, Bilbo dashed off to his room, grabbed a travel bag he kept in his closet and threw everything he could think he'd need into it.

Blasting out of his front door and down his front porch steps, not even bothering to lock up, Bilbo cut through his neighbor's yards—over fences, through gardens, and past the grumpy neighbors themselves—towards the main road that led into the city with an overwhelming swell of hope inside his chest that the Sons of Durin hadn't yet left for their adventure. Sprinting as fast as he could—which, albeit, was not very fast—Bilbo turned a sharp corner and could see the gang and Gandalf preparing to mount their hogs and ride off. "Wait!" He wheezed out, "Wait!" He called again, slightly louder this time.

Thorin twisted around to see who was calling for them and a mixture of peace and surprise glossed over his face. Bilbo tried not to pay too much heed to Thorin's expression, however, and instead walked straight up to Balin and handed him the now sweaty and tattered contract. "I—I signed it," he huffed out, placing his hands on his hips and trying his hardest to regain his breath. His lungs felt like someone had set up a camp site, decided they wanted s'mores, and packed the bottom of the muscles with sharp, pointy kindling and set fire to it and let the smoke waft up into the back of his throat, making him cough harshly every few seconds.

Balin flipped through the contract, saw that Bilbo had signed at all the necessary points and smiled kindly at him. "Everything appears to be in order. Welcome, Mr. Baggins, to the Sons of Durin." The men cheered—Fili and Kili the loudest—and Bilbo couldn't help it, he looked over to Thorin to see his response, a wide smile on his tired face. The look he thought he'd seen before, though, the one that looked faintly like relief, was gone—maybe it had never been there—and in its place was a look of pure apathetic disinterest. As if Thorin couldn't have cared less if Bilbo had turned up or not.

With a slow, bored roll of his eyes, Thorin ordered, "Get him on a bike."

Eyes widening with horror, Bilbo hadn't thought about transportation before now. Looking around wildly he saw that everyone, even Gandalf, was riding, or would be riding, a motorcycle. "No, no," Bilbo backtracked. He coughed uncomfortably, "No. I—that won't be necessary, thank you. I—I can run back up to my house and grab my car—no, really it's fine! It's inconspicuous, really—a minivan! What's more conspicuous than a mini-van?" He gave a nervous chuckle which was cut off abruptly when he heard the sound of multiple motors turning over and the gang members mounting their motorcycles. Thorin, Gandalf, and a few others slowly drove down the road, starting up the caravan.

"Come on, Mr. Baggins," Bofur awkwardly walked his bike up to Bilbo's side. His large hat was still on his head, but squished beneath his helmet. "I've got a side car you can use." Bilbo side eyes the rickety thing with disdain and suspicion. The thing looked like it'd fall apart once they went higher than ten miles per hour. "Come on," Bofur pushed again, "We don't wanna fall behind now do we?"

Scrunching his nose, but knowing they really shouldn't fall too behind, Bilbo sighed and grabbed the extra helmet Bofur offered and settled into the side car. His hands searched the area around his legs for a seat belt and after finding nothing he looked up and asked, "Ah, Bofur? Where's the seat belt?"

"Seat belt? Bofur repeated, his large brown eyes widening with confusion. "Don't need no seatbelts on a bike, Mr. Bilbo."

"What?" Bilbo tried to bark out, but it was too late. Bofur slammed on the gas and off they sped after the rest of the Sons of Durin.

A/N: If you liked this chapter then please leave a review! :)