Mayfair is amused at how thorough Mr. Bilbo is about packing. He has an orderly sense of what they'll need, and she lets him talk to himself as he does so. Handing him things seems to be her job and she makes it a point to have whatever he asks for up and ready before he's finished asking for it.
The two packs are done in record time, and before long she's following Mr. Bilbo down the dark stairs, smelling the familiar scent of the river. Outside the light is bright enough to make her blink, and the familiar canopy of green leaves makes Mayfair grin with pleasure. Nice as the Hole has been, she's happy to be outside once more, near the sparkle of light on the water. She looks at him in time to catch him looking at her.
"Right then, we are off," Mr. Bilbo tells her, and points with his chin to the little path that meanders near the water's edge. "We'll take this down past the bridge and follow it up towards. This time of day I doubt we'll see many folk."
Mayfair nods. She's still in the borrowed trousers and shirt, her dress clean and packed away for now on her back. With her hair tied back and a battered straw hat on her head she might be able to pass for a lad, as long as nobody looks too closely. She intends to stay in Mr. Bilbo's shadow and let him do the talking, if there needs to be any talking to strangers.
After some cautious shifting from one side of the path to the other, furtively following Mr. Bilbo's big footprints, Mayfair settles to a matching pace on his left side, keeping half an eye on the Water, which is parallel to them a stone's throw away. The air is fresh and cool, with little gusts rippling through the long grass and playfully trying to take her hat off. Once they've gone a certain distance Mayfair sees Mr. Bilbo visibly relax; he stops to fish out his pipe and light it, giving a little half-smile as he does so.
"All right then, now we can set our own pace, eh?" using the long stem of the pipe he points forward and slightly to the right. "Bindbole Wood is that way, about three leagues off, barring any obstacles."
"Will there be any?" Mayfair wants to know, peering in the indicated direction.
"Anything's possible my girl," Mr. Bilbo concedes. "Fallen trees, lake-sized puddles, stranded sheep . . ."
"Dangerous," Mayfair grins. "I'll protect you."
"Good, see that you do," Mr. Bilbo replies with mock-severity. "We all know the reputation sheep have."
"Very woolly," Mayfair agrees, and stifles a giggle.
They walk along for most of the morning, chatting of this and that, the pipe's smoke trailing behind them as they pass meadows and fields of slightly flattened wheat just starting to rise up again in the sunshine. Mayfair spots a few blackbirds in the sky, and around one bend they flush a large brown hare, watching it bound away in a quick burst of speed through the long grass.
"That's good luck, that is, to cross a rabbit's track," Mayfair tells Mr. Bilbo confidently.
He gives a nod and points ahead. "So I've heard, yes. There, just under that big willow; we'll stop for a bite to eat, all right?"
Mayfair agrees, and after a while they reach the tree. It's a huge beast, long branches forming a green pavilion around the mossy grass carpeting the ground under it. She's pleased to see it's on a rise above the river, too, so it will be cool as well.
They reach it and pull off their packs, enjoying the springy feel of the moss underfoot. Mr. Bilbo lays out a cloth and begins to slice up brown bread still warm from that morning's baking, along with wedges of cheese, a carefully wrapped bundle of apples and a bottle of cider to wash it all down.
It's all delicious of course, and Mayfair is surprised at how much of an appetite she has. Mr. Bilbo frets a bit about not having proper plates but she doesn't mind at all, and watches him bury the apple cores at the base of the willow.
Afterwards, Mayfair offers to help tidy up the rest of the picnic, but he shoos her away, so she wanders down to the water's edge, peering into the shallows as she rolls up her trouser legs.
There are guppies and minnows darting about in the dappled water, and Mayfair wiggles her toes at them, grinning when they flee only to return a moment later, curious. Wading out to shin level, she drops a heavy crumb of cheese, watching it drift to the sandy bottom. Immediately it's surrounded by hungry guppies, making it a ball of black wiggling spikes, and Mayfair giggles. She waits a moment longer, and then sees it; the long grey-green curve of a trout coming closer. Carefully, skillfully she inches her foot closer to the cheese, and . . .
With a flip the fish is in the air and Mayfair pulls her shirt out, using it to catch the wriggling thing. She turns, calling to Mr. Bilbo, who is looking at her with a strange, strange expression. It scares her a little, and in her distraction the fish slips out of her grip and back into the water, disappearing from sight within seconds. Not that she's looking at it; Mayfair is caught by the sight of Mr. Bilbo, pale and still.
"Are you all right?" she called tentatively.
"Yes," he says in a voice that isn't, and then a little more strongly, "Yes. I just . . . where did you learn to . . . do that?"
Mayfair wades back towards him, rinsing her hands in the water. "Most River folk can, after a fashion. It's a Stoor thing, really. Comes from being near the water so much of the time."
"Ah," Mr. Bilbo says, and gives his head a shake. "Well, I suppose it's handy when one hasn't got a pole or a net."
"Sometimes," Mayfair agrees.
"You don't . . . eat them raw, do you?" comes his hesitant question, and Mayfair shoots him a startled look, hands on her hips.
"Raw? What do you think I am, a cat?" she shoots back, a little stung by the question. "Really Mr. Bilbo, I think you've had a touch too much of the sun. Raw! That's just nasty, that is."
His grin is more reassuring, and when she reaches the shore he hands her hat to her, his voice low. "I'm sorry, my dear. It's just . . ."
And he tells her of the creature he met deep in the wet waters of the troll's mountain; a thing not a troll that caught and ate raw fish. Mayfair listens, revolted and a little frightened by the description. By the intensity of his memory. When Mr. Bilbo is done, she hesitates only a moment, then moves into his arms and hugs him, very tightly.
He hugs her back, and they stand like that for a long moment under the veil of the willow branches.
-oo00oo-
The sight of Mayfair flipping a fish out of the water gave him a heart's beat of panic, true, but Bilbo knows he's is better now. Telling the girl about it helped of course, and then that lovely hug . . . it's a wonder what a reassuring embrace can do to settle one's nerves.
She's at his elbow, never far, looking up at the trees, and Bilbo likes the line of her jaw, the rounded point of her ear. It's been a long time since he felt such stirrings inside, and a part of him wants to slow their pace; draw out this little jaunt.
To keep it theirs for a while longer.
But there's duty of course, and getting the girl back to Needlehole is important. Her father will be worried, and given the storm there will be probably as much to clean up there as in Hobbiton. Certainly the fallen trees and debris along the path to bear that up. Three times they've had to detour around heavy brambles. Mayfair has taught him several songs and together they've made one up about puddles.
Silly, yes, but Bilbo doesn't mind. It's been good to laugh along the way.
By the time they reach the edge of Bindbole Wood the sun is behind the tops of trees there, and Bilbo knows it's time to make camp. He finds a little sheltered spot behind a hillock and looks at Mayfair who slips off her pack with a sigh of relief and stretches her arms overhead.
"So . . . would you like some fish?" she asks, smiling, and he looks at her for a long moment before smiling back.
"You're serious?"
"I am. The Water's just over there, and I can bring us a pair of trout to roast on sticks if you'd like."
"That sounds lovely," he tells her quietly. "Do you think . . ?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think you could show me . . . how?" Bilbo asks, hoping she'll see it for the act of faith it is.
That brings one of her giggles. "I could try."
Ten minutes later the pair of them are knee-deep in an eddy-pool along the edge of the river, peering down into the water together. Mayfair is patiently pointing out the shadows moving around them. "That's an eel; not as fond of them as my father is, and that's a young pollan . . . too small for eating, and that one is a brown trout who is going to be my supper—"
A splash later and Mayfair has the fish in hand. She quickly jabs a sharpened stick between its eyes and it stops wriggling.
"I hate that part," she murmurs, dipping the fish back in the water to rinse it and then tossing it up on the shore. "It's quick and they don't suffer, but I still don't like it."
"I thought you fished for a living," Bilbo murmurs, surprised.
"I do, but with nets that's more of a business," Mayfair mutters. "This is more personal, like. I like fishing, I just don't like the killing part."
"We'll do them honor by enjoying them then," Bilbo assures her, oddly moved by her admission. "As long as we're grateful for the bounty, it's a worthy death then, right?"
It's a joy to see her face brighten at this, and she nods. "That's a very kind way of thinking, Mr. Bilbo."
"Just—Bilbo," he tells her gently. "We are friends, Mayfair."
She blinks at this and gives a little nod, ducking her head bashfully.
o0o0o
He's not very good at it; terrible in fact. It doesn't help that Bilbo finds himself stubbing his toes on rocks under the water, or that Mayfair's shirt is wet.
Wet enough to be a bit transparent in places it ought not to be, actually. Bilbo knows full well what females look like; he certainly spent his share of time making the effort to find out years ago. To have Mayfair wandering around unconcernedly is both embarrassing and arousing, and Bilbo is torn about what to do. If he alerts her she'll be mortified, and if he doesn't, then he's not being the gentleman his mother would expect him to be.
Torn, he finds himself turning away from her, but sneaking peeks back her way, and that's when he trips, slipping under the water with a sudden splash. Bilbo rises up again in a moment, embarrassed, cold, and unprepared for the glorious sight of Mayfair tugging him up, her shirt so plastered to her body as to be invisible.
Despite the chill, Bilbo feels a rush of heat between his thighs. Matters aren't helped much by the feel of her pulling him close, checking his eyes. "Are you all right?" Mayfair demands anxiously, brushing his wet curls back from his forehead. "You gave me such a fright!"
"I'm-I'm fine," he manages, teeth chattering a bit in a mix of cold and desire, his body brushing hers as he tries to find his footing again. Then Bilbo steps on one of her feet and they both go down into the water, tangling together, bobbing up again spluttering.
He drags the two of them to the shore and they flop themselves on it, wet and giggling, out of breath. Bilbo rolls to face her, feeling a sense of déjà vu as Mayfair rises to meet him, her mouth seeking his. And this kiss . . .
This kiss is different. It's a slow sweet plunge of tongue to tongue, a tango of slick heat between them. Bilbo realizes how thin the veneer of self-delusion has been, for both of them. Mayfair's hands grip his shoulders, her little moan urging him on, and he kisses her again, giving in, getting kissed in return.
He can't remember how they make it up the slope to where the packs are, or how the two of them clumsily strip out of their wet gear to lie on one of the blankets. The light shows it's the rich golden hour before sunset, and what stays with Bilbo is how Mayfair's skin is like pink cream; how delicate the rim of her ear is, how her breath feels against the side of his throat.
It's a near thing but Bilbo doesn't take her.
He touches her, kisses her, lets his damp fingers and soft lips linger on and love Mayfair's body in the last brilliance of sunset as he murmurs endearments and reassurances against her skin. They stay entangled through the sweet shudders of her pleasure, through her wide-eyed, delighted exploration of his very different physique.
When her curiosity blends with his own overwhelming need, Bilbo guides her hands and shows her what he needs. Mayfair laughs and her fingers dance over his aching flesh, caressing him with such tenderness that his climax is an overwhelmingly joyous event. A reassurance that he lives.
They stay curled around each other until the sun goes down and twilight paints the sky. Finally Mayfair leans over him, dark curls dangling down to touch his bare chest, her eyes bright. "Thank you," she whispers.
"Mayfair," Bilbo begins, but she won't let him say anything more as she chuckles, kisses him, and rises, pulling dry clothes from her pack.
"If you start a fire, I'll see if there are any fish left," she tells him quietly with a smile.