A while later—Mayfair isn't sure of the exact time—she wakes with a jolt, shivering, and realizes that she's rolled over into cold wetness. Perplexed, she reaches out a hand and feels the sodden sheets and coverlet all along the side of the bed, shockingly icy.
For a petrifying, humiliating second she fears somehow it's her fault, but no, the gusts coming in through the broken window make it clear what's happened. Mayfair slips out of bed and steps over, feeling bits of glass under her tough soles. Gingerly she clears the broken bits still in the window frame and pulls the shutters closed against the gusty rain, locking them. Now the room is grave-like; cold and dark and quiet. Mayfair moves to light the candle and another shiver rattles her body.
Rainwater has seeped along the wall under the window and the dresser is soaked, along with the closer half of the bed. She fetches towels from the water closet and mops up, ignoring her discomfort and chagrin, cleaning everything as best she can with her limited resources. It helps, but it's too late for the bed, which must be stripped.
The cold isn't doing her bruises much good, but Mayfair keeps working, gathering the linens and setting the doilies to dry on the towel rack. Just before she's done she hears footsteps and looks up, mortified to see Mr. Bilbo, candle in hand looking into the bedroom around the door.
"I thought I heard breaking glass," he murmurs. "Oh dear. Are you all right?
" Mayfair nods. "S-s-s-sorry about this. The window . . ."
"Shhh, not your fault at all, Mayfair." Mr. Bilbo comes over and examines the locked shutters for a moment, one hand resting lightly on the dresser. Even though Mayfair knows it was an accident, she feels horribly guilty just the same. The dresser will probably have to be sanded and re-varnished at this rate—
"I've been looking for a reason to replace this monstrosity," Mr. Bilbo murmurs cheerfully. "What a stroke of luck! Balthus Proudfoot will be thrilled haul it away and I can finally talk the Greenrow brothers into selling me one of their carved chests. Definitely a nice turn of events!" He peeks over his shoulder at her, smiling. "The constant war of frugality and style, eh? I couldn't have that last unless I had a compelling reason to get rid of this old thing, and now I do. It's wonderful how some things turn out."
Numbly Mayfair nods, a little startled at his cheer, but he must see something of her confusion since he comes over to her and taps her nose with a playful finger. "The dresser's not valuable, Mayfair—it's cheap oak and its only virtue is size. Proudfoot will pull it apart and make some lovely toolboxes from it, you'll see."
"Really?" blurts out before she can stop it, and Mayfair wants to squirm because she sounds like a child needing reassurance. Mr. Bilbo chuckles, still smiling at her and again she's caught in how blue his eyes are.
"Really," he replies firmly. "Now come along; you can't sleep in here tonight." She follows him out, and the temperature in the hallway is warmer than the bedroom, but not by much. Mr. Bilbo slips an arm around her and they make their way through the darkness with only his candle casting a brave little glow before them. When they finally reach one of the far doors in the Hole, Mayfair feels him slow and hesitate.
It dawns on her then, and a lovely, frightening twist moves through her, blooming under her stomach and rising through as Mayfair realizes that beyond the door must be a bed, a bed probably still . . . warm.
"Go rest," he urges her. "I'll take the sofa in the parlor."
"N-n-no," Mayfair tells him, her voice a chatter as shivers run through her jaw. "Not f-fair to you. Either I t-take the sofa, or . . . we both stay.
" For a moment she stares at him, trying to read his startled expression, trying to find something in Mr. Bilbo's wide blue eyes to justify her boldness. He's been a gracious host and this saucy suggestion—for that's what most folk would call it—can't be totally unexpected. At least she hopes not.
He cocks his head as if he's unsure of what he's just heard, but his words are soft. "Mayfair, you're a good girl—"
"—And I'll still be a good girl, but I'll be a lot warmer one too if I can put my b-back up against yours," the words tumble out of her. "Mr. Bilbo we're both cold and tired, and I mean nothing forward to it, just some rest. Please," she adds, feeling close to tears for some odd reason. "On my mother's name I don't mean anything more than bundling against the chill."
-oo00oo-
For a long moment Bilbo stares at the girl, and even in his absent gaze he notes the way her raven-colored hair gleams in the candlelight; how young and miserable and adorable she looks all at the same time. An unaccountable tenderness wells up in him and Bilbo wants to reach out and touch her face.
He doesn't, and restrains himself with a soft cough to cover his confusion. "You're very kind, but I'll be fine on the sofa, truly."
"Pardon me, but I've sat on that sofa and I know you won't be," Mayfair counters, her chin sticking out at a mulish angle that almost makes him smile. "It's all right for your backside, sort of, but you won't get a wink of sleep lying on that lumpy, itchy horsehair padding."
Bilbo hesitates and that little pause is enough to make her continue, her tone softer. "I trust you. You saved me from the river, you've fed me and fussed over me, and I know you're an honorable Hobbit. Now are we going to argue about this all night, or are you going to come get warm?"
There's no counter he can make at this point that wouldn't sound churlish, so he gives a sigh and a rueful smile. "You're probably right about the sofa."
"I know I am," Mayfair sighs, reaching out to push the bedroom door open. "Begging your pardon but you really need to have it opened up and re-fluffed this spring."
"It was my aunt Belba's," Bilbo admits gloomily. "She left it to my father when she passed away and honestly it's only in the parlor because it can seat three at a time."
"Re-fluffed," Mayfair repeats firmly. "And aired out too. Oh this is nice," she finishes, looking at the bed.
It's his old one, from his youth, a wide and sturdy bed with one of Proudfoot's heavy frames carved with vines of ivy in curlicues on the headboard. In the candlelight it looks as big as a ship, and the rumpled coverlet is mossy green flannel. Bilbo has slept in this bed for nearly twenty-five years; has dreamed and daydreamed here, has dropped off in exhaustion and discovered his own sensuality on this mattress; that last thought guiltily flits through his mind as he watches Mayfair walk around to the far side and climb in.
"Come on," she urges gently, her face serious. "You can trust me too."
Slowly he moves to the near side and drops his rump on the mattress, aware that the support is different; firmer by the counterweight of another body. Bilbo manages to slide in, tugging his nightshirt hem down and trying to look anywhere but at Mayfair. She leans away from him and blows out the feeble flame of the candle, plunging them into darkness.
Settling in takes time; they both shift and whisper apologies with each twist and turn but finally Bilbo finds himself on his side, and the sweet warmth along his back tells him that Mayfair has found her place. She gives a contented sigh, and one arm slides around his waist, like a soft belt.
He relaxes.
He slowly drops off to sleep, and right before he does, Bilbo thinks, I like this.
And I knew I would.
It's still dark when he wakes up, but some inner clock lets Bilbo know that it's just after dawn. Even though his eyes are closed, he hears how the wind had died down to occasional gusts, and to his nose, the scent of rain has faded into the faint after-musk of damp leaves and mud.
There will be much to do to clean up, he knows: clearing and raking mostly, along with repairing the bedroom window, but for the moment Bilbo is content to lie here in the warm cocoon of the blankets, the cozy weight of Mayfair draped along his right side. Her head is a nice weight on his shoulder, and the possessive drape of her leg over his is enough to send impulses of a certain sort through his frame.
Oh dear, Bilbo thinks, caught between relaxation and response. Not good.
Actually it's very good; too good and he stays still, savoring the cuddle all the more. He's not the hugging sort and never has been, but this girl keeps drawing responses from him, and Bilbo can't tell if it's because she's lonely . . . or he is.
It's not an easy thing to admit, loneliness. Bilbo's lived on his own for years now, both before his Adventure and after it, and in all that time he's been very comfortable with his own company, has preferred his own company and made that clear to everyone. But there have been times when another voice would have been welcome. When another body—like this one curling so sweetly around him now—would have been, is, very welcome.
Bilbo lies quietly, willing Mayfair's leg to stay put, but it shifts a bit, almost in mischievous defiance of his thoughts, stroking a little and sending sparks of heat along his thigh. He fights the tiny groan in this throat because noble as his intentions are, the rest of his body isn't listening to high-minded ideals. No the rest of his body is slyly urging him to pull Mayfair over his chest and kiss her awake.
It isn't fair, Bilbo thinks. This girl—a stranger he's known for two days—is now making him flustered and warm and unsure of himself, and all without the slightest intention to do so. Mayfair Lillyroot hasn't a devious bone in her body—
Her body comes a dark little echo in his thoughts, and Bilbo bites his lips hard to drive it away. It's a nasty shadow, a cobweb clinging to his desire and dirtying it somehow. He knows, too, the trinket has brought it to mind and for that he lies still, mastering himself until the hint of nausea leaves.
A soft sigh warms his ear and he hears the shift in Mayfair's breathing as she slowly wakens. It's hard not to smile, hearing her give a little gasp of surprise as she realizes how snugly she's wrapped around him. She stiffens, but Bilbo keeps his breathing even, and allows her a moment to compose herself before he opens his eyes and lets his gaze flicker sideways to hers.
"You are the most comfortable Hobbit I've ever known," Mayfair whispers forthrightly, and gives his ribs a little squeeze to accent her words.
"I'm not sure if I'm insulted or not," Bilbo tells her a few seconds later even though they're both grinning at each other in the dim light like a pair of idiots.
"You shouldn't be," Mayfair reassures him. "You're also the only Hobbit I've, um, put my feet on, in a manner of speaking."
Bilbo lifts the quilt to check. "So you have, and stolen all my warmth, thank you very much. Tell me, are all you Lillyroots this deviously cool-blooded?"
This earns him a squawk and a throw pillow full in the face.
"Oh is that how it's going to be?" Smirking, Bilbo returns the favor with the down-filled lump under his head, and within minutes the spirited battle takes casualties as a flying bolster knocks a painting from the wall. Mayfair freezes, but he gives a good-natured shrug and waves a hand. "Pfft. A hideous duck portrait; it's better on the floor, believe me."
"Well in that case," Mayfair giggles, and swings another pillow at him, putting substantial power behind it. Bilbo dodges and retaliates well, having learned a thing or two about doling out blows, and all too soon the pair of them are collapsed again on the mattress, breathless and giggling in their truce as stray feathers drift in the growing light of the dawn.
"That was the most ridiculous thing I've done in ages," Mayfair snickers.
"You're downright dangerous with a pillow," Bilbo tells her, fighting to keep a straight face. "I'd hate to see what you'd do with an entire feather bed."
They both chuckle, and Bilbo senses that this moment for all its loveliness is passing; they're both aware of the morning growing, and all the responsibilities that are waiting to be faced just beyond the bedroom door. He knows it's time to get on with things, and can't help but feel a streak of resentment now.
"Thank you," Mayfair tells him, and leans over, one of her long black curls brushing his cheek. "For everything."
The brush of her lips at the corner of his mouth is so impossibly tender that Bilbo closes his eyes, afraid to breathe. They linger against his skin, those lips and he turns, taking the gift of it in a quick kiss, clumsy but oh-so-warm.
They are halfway through another when the echoing rap on the front door carries through the Hole.