The good thing about the rain is it gives Bilbo a chance to do all the little indoor chores he has put off for a while. The bad thing is that now that he has company as well, he doesn't want to do any of them. Folding the dish towels and sorting the potatoes and ironing the curtains can all wait as far as he's concerned; sitting and talking with Miss Mayfair is far more interesting.
She knows her share of shire gossip, certainly and the little politics of the area too, but beyond that it's clear that Miss Mayfair is also keenly observant, both of folk and nature. Being on a boat, she says, makes it easier to watch things on the banks, and Hobbit nature being what it is, making connections is the natural second step. When she tells him about her father's half-hearted attempts to get himself elected, Bilbo is sympathetic.
"He's a good man, but too nervous," Miss Mayfair tells him with a sigh. "Too worried about what others think of him. And of course I'm no help either, being this unwed millstone around his neck. Father wants to marry me off, but without me he'll starve, and quite frankly I'd rather spend my days on a boat than be left behind in some hole with no say over my days."
"What if you married another fisherman?" Bilbo points out, half-playfully since he senses this is a sore point for the girl. She rolls her pretty eyes.
"None in Needlehole would have me; not without a dowry that my father cannot hope to supply, Mr. Bilbo. I've out-fished the majority anyway, and although they all laugh about it, it cuts their pride in a way that won't heal easily." Miss Mayfair says with a little toss of her head, but Bilbo sees a hint of regret on her face. Clearly she and her father have suffered a bit thanks to her attitude and Hobbits, he knows, have long memories.
"Ah well, if you like the water and are happy on it," he offers, and Miss Mayfair nods a little too quickly, eager to pass by this point of the conversation, embarrassed at being hoist on her own spinsterhood.
After a while they drift to the kitchen and Bilbo begins to prepare lunch. Miss Mayfair insists on helping and it makes for quick work as she peels potatoes and grates cheese for the shepherd's pie he constructs. It's the sort of easy give and take he hasn't had since boyhood. Bag End is a good home, but it's a large pod for a single pea, a fact he's aware of too sometimes.
As they wait for the pie to bake, they play checkers, and Mayfair wins six games to three, her quick little fingers moving men and making kings quickly. Bilbo blames his lack of concentration on the fact that when she bends forward the neck of her shirt gaps a bit. Not something he's supposed to notice, but the cut of the garment was never meant for a girl's chest and the top button strains with every lean.
I'm becoming an old lecher, Bilbo thinks, feeling his face go red. His guest, this girl is probably only half his age if that, and here he is as aware of her décolleté as any young village buck.
For her part she seems oblivious of his discomfort and for that Bilbo is grateful. He mentally reprimands himself to keep his eyes up and continues to lose games anyway, enjoying himself nonetheless. When the scent of pie wafts in, they both agree to quit the current session and head back to the kitchen.
The pie is lovely. Since it's only the two of them, Bilbo has them settle in at the kitchen table and serves up glasses of blackberry wine and wedges of rose-petal cheese to go with their lunch. He notes that Mayfair has lovely table manners despite the roughness of her fingers. She has a good appetite too; something else he approves of.
Afterwards though, it's clear that she's still a bit under the weather and Bilbo suggests some liniment and a nap, in that order. Uncapping the little ceramic pot of Brimstone Soak allows the fumes to make his eyes water, but Mayfair gives a nod of approval and takes it, smiling. "Oh yes, this will do the trick," she murmurs. "Although I'll be a bit . . . pungent."
"Mostly mint," Bilbo reminds her with a smile. "And that's a good scent. Go on with you; I've got boring chores to do while you rest." He sends her off in the direction of the master bedroom and busies himself cleaning up the kitchen. From the sound of the wind outside the storm is renewing itself for another big blow and Bilbo is glad he's got enough wood inside to keep the fire going for a while.
Then a little crashing sound alerts him that something is amiss, and padding quickly he makes his way to the bedroom door, hesitating just outside. "Are you all right?" he calls loudly.
"I . . . I slipped," comes the wavering reply, and Bilbo pushes the door open before he even thinks about it, not quite prepared for the sight of Mayfair in the candlelight, her braces down and her shirt rucked up to reveal the curve of one sleek but bruised hip. The pot of Brimstone Soak is on the floor, the ointment just beginning to trickle out. Bilbo scoops it up and his momentum brings him close to her; within that intimate space where the scent of her skin overwhelms him for a second.
Not a girl. A woman, Bilbo realizes, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He's caught, not daring to move closer, but not willing to step back either, and in this unexpected proximity he sees how wide Mayfair's pupils are as she returns his gaze. She's unafraid and yet just as startled as he is. Just as aware of him on this new level of recognition between them.
She sighs, and Bilbo feels the warmth of her breath reach his cheek, like a caress. "It's tricky," Mayfair murmurs and for a moment Bilbo is confused because those words could mean anything right now. He doesn't have what it takes to interpret them, and the tilt of her face lets him see the fine velvety down along her cheek in the candlelight.
"May I . . . help?" he offers in a rough whisper, the words coming out before he realizes he's saying them. Bilbo's not sure what he's offering, but the urge seems magnified in this closeness. There's mint in the still air, and sun-dried linen and the gentle perfume of Mayfair's clean skin.
In reply she nods, one curly tendril of hair slipping over her shoulder; she reaches to tug the shirt up a bit. Bilbo dips his fingers into the salve and brings them to the curve of her hip, touching the warm skin with reverence. He smears the ointment on, letting it create a layer of heat between his fingers and the softness of her flesh, his touch gliding smoothly along. Bilbo feels the jut of her hipbone, the long muscles kept tone by hours of bending and hauling nets. He feels how very alive Mayfair is under his touch.
And then he feels dizzy. The mingled scents, the closeness that seems tinted with the shadows in the room; Bilbo feels his body stir.
This is wrong he reminds himself. Mayfair is a guest.
She is a guest, his thoughts agree. She is also young and beautiful and under your hand. She is not moving away.
Her little sigh is one of relief and pleasure. Startled, Bilbo looks up and catches her profile; long lashes, faint smile complete with dimples. "Oh that's perfect," Mayfair murmurs. "Sinking right through the bruise, right where I can't reach it myself. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Bilbo assures her, and for the moment his dark thoughts thin out and dissipate, like a soap bubble. He dips another finger into the ointment and carefully rubs it upward, where her waist curves in convex definition. Mayfair shudders and gives a small gasp of a giggle.
"Ticklish," she explains in a shy voice.
"As am I," Bilbo admits with a wry twist of his lips. "One poke to the side of my ribs and I collapse like an old scarecrow." It's meant to make her laugh and does; Mayfair giggles again, the sound sweet. Bilbo finishes applying the Brimstone Soak, and then courageously pulls his hand back, reaching for the facecloth near the water pitcher to wipe it clean. The moment is lighter now and he can face her again. "There. That should help heal things along."
"Yes, it shall," Mayfair hums, tugging the shirt down and stuffing it back into the waistband of the trousers. "I'm certainly feeling it at the moment."
"The burn will keep you warm," Bilbo assures her, adding, "Rest and let it do its work, eh?"
He steadies her as she climbs into bed, and when Mayfair is stretched out, all that lovely dark hair across his pillow, Bilbo feels a sense of proprietary concern. It takes effort not to reach down and stroke her hair, but he does manage a smile. "Sleep," Bilbo tells Mayfair gently. "Supper will be in a few hours and you'll be feeling much better by then."
She gives a little nod and closes her eyes, the simple trust evident in her peaceful breathing. Bilbo blows the candle out and tiptoes away, closing the bedroom door behind him and giving a gusty sigh as he does so. It's only when he makes his way back to the kitchen that he realizes how tightly he's gripping the little pot of Brimstone Soak.
"Get ahold of yourself," he murmurs in a dry voice. "The storm will be over by morning and there will be a full list of things needing doing, not the least will be seeing the girl off. You've got enough to do without mooning over her, Bilbo Baggins." This personal rebuke makes him snort and he goes to put more wood on the fire.
-oo00oo-
She wakes again, rising slowly through the layers of sleep and smiling when she realizes where she is this time. There is no daylight at all through the window, but her night vision is good enough to know the layout of the room. Mayfair crawls from the bed, less achy than before; the ointment has done a good job in lessening the pain of the bruises. After a quick trip to the little water closet she stretches and considers what she can do to repay Mr. Bilbo for his hospitality.
Fish is the first thing that comes to mind, naturally, but without her boat and nets that's not going to be possible. Mayfair thinks about what other skills she has, taking a mental inventory even as a sneaky set of other thoughts lurk below those in her mind. Sewing of course; she's got lots of experience with that. Some cooking, mostly of the baking sort. If she had the supplies Mayfair figures she could probably knit him something to wear, although that's a bit personal . . .
Personal, yes, her thoughts snicker. You wouldn't mind that though, would you? He's definitely attractive with those blue eyes and that kind smile. Instantly Mayfair chides herself even as she remembers the feel of his fingers along her bare hip, that warm touch smoothing in the ointment and creating heat in other places at the same time. She knows the lure is physical, yes. Mayfair's been kissed before; she knows the opening steps of the dance that ends on a mattress or a haystack or behind a hedgerow.
Only the opening steps, though. She's been too skeptical of the sheep's eyes some of the village boys make at her, too smart to think there won't be a price paid if matters go further without a wedding. Still, the temptations of Mr. Bilbo's dimples and steady gaze are strong enough to make her shiver a bit. He'd be good at . . . things, Mayfair thinks. A man of the world.
She's not sure what that means exactly, but she senses that Bilbo Baggins would know all the steps to the dance and then some, probably. The thought makes her shiver again, and bite her lips to hold back a laugh. To keep herself from letting her mind dwell on matters best left alone, Mayfair heads out and follows her nose because the scent of something very good is tantalizing her now, a sweet and gamey scent she recognizes as roast hare.
Mr. Bilbo is at the spit in the kitchen, basting and humming at the same time. He looks up at her and smiles. "Better?"
"Better," she agrees. "Um, thank you, for earlier. For . . . helping."
Mayfair catches it then, the faint pink of a blush on his face, and it startles her because it's so unexpected.
And sweet.
"Yes well sometimes injuries are in . . . tricky places," he chuffs, looking away from her. "I hope you like hare."
"I do," Mayfair assures him. "It smells wonderful."
A sudden gust of wind interrupts them, making the window of the kitchen shake and they both look at it in surprise. Mayfair wraps her arms around herself and shivers a little. "I blame myself," she tells Mr. Bilbo. "I saw the signs and went out anyway. I hope father will forgive me."
"Oh I'm sure he will," Mr. Bilbo tells her comfortingly. "You're his child, and parents—good parents—forgive."
His words warm her, and Mayfair ducks her head, thinking that Mr. Bilbo himself would make a good father himself with an attitude like that.
This time it's her turn to ask questions, and half of her dinner goes cold as Mayfair listens, enchanted, to the story of his Adventure. He does wonderful impressions of each dwarf, from the puffed out cheeks of one called Bombur to the menacing look of one called Dwalin. He's melancholy when he reaches the end of his story, several hours later, and by then the fire is low and the dishes are a sad, sorry mess on the table.
In the pause that follows Mayfair slowly rises and moves over to Mr. Bilbo, impulsively putting an arm around his shoulders in gentle comfort. It's not a romantic gesture, just one designed to console, and the way he leans into her tummy feels right. Gently Mayfair lifts a hand to stroke his hair, and it's warm under her fingers, thick and soft.
She stands here feeling needed, support and reassurance a tangible bond between them, and Mayfair is so very glad she can do this for Mr. Bilbo; let him grieve for companions long gone and unremembered in this part of the world by anyone else but him. He clings to her for a while in the dark warmth of the kitchen and then finally, with a deep, wet breath lifts his face away and looks up at her, his crooked smile breaking her heart as he blinks a bit.
"Thank you," Mr. Bilbo whispers to her, his voice rough. "I haven't . . . I've never had the chance to tell anyone about all of this. You're the first who's . . . ever asked."
"I'm honored," Mayfair tells him just as softly. "They were noble souls and good friends; that's what makes it right to remember them."
He nods at that, and Mayfair sees that although Mr. Bilbo's eyes are red his smile this time is stronger. "That they were. I think . . . I think it's time for bed, dear Mayfair. Leave the dishes for the morning I think. I'm so very tired."
She gives a hum of agreement and when he pulls away to rise, she misses the weight of his head against her, the feel of his hair.
Seize the moment, she thinks, and slips an arm around his waist, murmuring, "To bed with you then. This time I'll take care of things, all right?"
It pleases her that he doesn't argue; instead, he bends forward and brushes his lips against her hairline, the buss gently warm. It sends more tingles through her, but Mayfair fights them; this isn't the time or place to think of it. Instead, she guides him down the hall and to the second best bedroom, making sure Mr. Bilbo has a candle lit before she bids him goodnight and closes the door.
She moves from room to room extinguishing the lights and banks the kitchen fire well before heading to her own room. Ablutions done, Mayfair strips down to her shirt and climbs into bed, her head full of wild bearded men, great flashing swords, and the memory of wet blue eyes.
She sleeps.