Mayfair feels light-headed, serenely happy in a way that defies words. Her body— normally so solid and dependable—is barely tethered to the earth at the moment, so light and free is it. She's not sure if she can even contain this joy, not with the effervescence of it lightening her so.
It's too much to share at the moment and the fish is gone from the bank, so collecting wood is a good way to collect herself as well. She leaves her hair loose as she wanders, foraging suitable sticks and branches left over from the storms, her thoughts as buoyant as her stride. Hands automatically pull and sort as Mayfair smiles to herself.
This must be what brings folk together, she thinks. This dance that pulls male and female together like magnet ends; compelled beyond resisting. And to find that one's private pleasure can—is—practice for such mutual bliss is overwhelming! Mayfair thinks she is a smart girl who knows more than most, but this new knowledge is humbling. It explains much of what she's seen, and much of which she's yearned for.
When she returns to the hollow, Bilbo has managed a small fire. He looks up at her, eyes bright but still tinged with the smallest hint of sadness. Mayfair sets the wood down and hesitates, not sure if her touch will be welcome. He reaches out, though, and the feel of his fingers on hers makes her sigh.
"Thank you," comes his murmur. He keeps gazing at her, and instead of feeling self-conscious Mayfair smiles at him, squeezing his fingers in return.
"It's all right," she tells him quietly. "We didn't do anything that I didn't already want to do, so stop your fretting. I think we're grown enough to stand by that, eh?"
"You are," Bilbo sighs, "too pragmatic at times, Mayfair Orrins Lillyroot and I adore you for making an old man happy."
"Not old," she smirks, "Not by a long shot. Now let's see if we can manage a meal before we both die of hunger."
There are enough comestibles to fill the bill—cheese and bread, a jugged hare, more apples and a pear pie carefully wrapped to keep it whole. It's enough busy work to keep them from any serious discussion, and by the time the food is eaten and the dishes done, the lovely mauve twilight has turned to indigo across the sky between the treetops overhead.
Mayfair settles back against the grass, aware of the sweet smoke of Bilbo's pipe as she stretches her toes towards the warmth of the fire. The air is chilly, thanks to the river close by, but she's full and content. She wants to snuggle but won't, not until he reaches for her.
She hopes he will, soon though.
"We have another half day's walk until Needlehole," Bilbo begins in a soft voice. "And before we get there, I want to know your thoughts."
Mayfair treads lightly because she sees the concern in his eyes, even here in the dim firelight. "My thoughts? Well, I think you think too much. We have the road and the stars and warm blankets and the whole night ahead of us, Bilbo Baggins. I'm not asking for a blessed thing more than that."
He blows a smoke ring and watches it rise up to join the tendrils drifting from the campfire. "You should," Bilbo murmurs, but she can hear the smile in his voice. "A woman like you deserves more than this."
"I've spent the better part of my life deciding what's best for myself," Mayfair reminds him, "and I'm not about to stop now. We've got a very nice rapport here, and even if it's only for the rest of the trip, it's what I want." Carefully she adds, "We're sensible folk, we Lillyroots. No point in asking for more."
"Stubborn, more like," Bilbo sighs and moves to empty his pipe on the fire. "And what if there's more to it than what's here and now on the road?"
Mayfair chuckles. "If there is more to it, then it will come in its own sweet time. You can't rush an egg or a sunset, dear."
She sees him smile, his expression bright and for a moment, boyish. "Maybe that's so, but you can't stop either of those once they're in motion. And make no mistake, Mayfair dear, we are most definitely . . . in motion." He trails off, still watching her.
"And will that motion bring you from over there to over here, by me?" Mayfair asks softly, propping her head up, watching him.
"I believe it will."
The second time is no less sweet but not as frantic, not as much driven by need as by tenderness. Mayfair leads this time and finds herself moved by the sight of Bilbo's patience. He permits her to touch and explore his body, answering her shy questions in whispers, mirroring some of her caresses with more confidence.
There are questions she wants to ask but Mayfair doesn't, because her body is blooming under Bilbo's skillful fingers and kisses. Dim in the back of her muddled thoughts she senses there's something more, something unfinished to this. When she catches his face in her hands he shakes his head.
"No," he insists, his voice ragged. "While it might be yours to give, I won't take it, sweetheart. I won't sully your reputation, not for all the kisses in the Shire."
Mayfair shudders, torn between desire for this stubborn man and tender exasperation with his sense of honor. She knows that his body wants completion with hers very much, that the feeling is mutual despite his noble words. Carefully she wraps her strong legs around him, cradling Bilbo's body with hers to allow damp friction to bring them both to joy.
A fine thing, she thinks drowsily, comforted by his weight. Oh but I DO want more.
-oo00oo-
There is no confusion, no uncertainty. Most of his life those states have plagued him, but not in this regard, and Bilbo knows his own mind as surely and clearly as he knows his own parlor. No, the matter is plainly obvious now, and a plan begins to form in his thoughts. Hobbits, Bilbo knows, are very keen on planning, particularly when it comes to certain events.
All things must take place in the correct order though, and that too, is a Hobbit habit, therefore when dawn begins to bring light into their little ravine he watches Mayfair sleep. She is a warm bouncy weight against his side, and each slow breath pushes her rounded chest against his slightly furry one. The sensation is tinged with desire, yes, but also with sweet comfort as well. Bilbo knows the scent of her skin now, and the tickle of her curls against his cheek makes him smile.
Watching her wake is a pleasure too, and when Mayfair blinks muzzily at him, Bilbo nudges his nose alongside hers, lips barely brushing. "Morning."
"So it is," she agrees and smothers a yawn that turns into giggles as he mirrors the action. "You look a fright."
"And you look . . . wonderful," Bilbo tells her. "Glorious."
Mayfair laughs. "Me with my bog-breath and hair tangled up in a rat's nest?"
"I've seen worse; ever dealt with dwarves at dawn? Not a charming sight," he tells her, memory making him smile.
Mayfair smiles too, and looks up at the sky. "Fair day today, but we'll have rain by sunset," she predicts. "I see sandy bottom clouds just on the edges of the sky. Doesn't look like it will be too heavy."
"Grateful for that, then." Bilbo sighs, and clears his throat a little. Mostly to get her attention. "Mayfair," he begins.
She arches an eyebrow. "No serious discussions before breakfast."
"That's the rule, is it?"
"Yes," Mayfair assures him. "A good one too; weighty words go better on a full stomach. Do you fancy hotcakes?"
He does and says so; twenty minutes later Mayfair is skillfully pouring out batter onto the one skillet they'd brought, holding it over the revived fire. Bilbo finishes packing up the knapsacks and then comes to squat beside her, his gaze on the skillet, his words thoughtful. "Things are different now, sweetheart. We both know that."
"They . . . don't have to be," Mayfair murmurs back just as carefully. "I meant what I said about not asking for anything more. You've given me so very much already and I'm grateful."
"They're different over and above because we happened," Bilbo points out firmly. "We happened and from where I stand it's a good thing. Probably one of the best things ever for me. And what I need to know is if that's the same for you as well. If not, I won't say another word about it and we can go on to Needlehole as," he chokes a bit and regains his composure, "as friends, if that's what you want."
Mayfair gives a slow sigh and jerks the skillet up, flipping the hot cake with a deft motion before she speaks. "Three days. I've known you and you've known me for all of three days, dear heart. Here in the Shire that's nothing. Barely time at all. If we did this the way my father would want there would be months of courting, and all that fuss about dowries, or lack of in my case, and negotiating what I bring and what I keep, and what the children will get, and under all that will be the gossip, oh yes, the gossip and across the fence talk about you marrying beneath you and me thinking myself better than folk by landing a rich man. I don't care a badger's arse for your money or your Hole, Bilbo Baggins, I really don't. It would have been so much simpler if YOU had been the one to wash up on the shore because then I could love you just as I do without the fuss."
This torrent of words hits Bilbo square in the chest; a bull's-eye of frustration, longing, and uncertainty all ameliorated by the little afterthought confession tagged on the end. He cocks his head and looks at her but Mayfair refuses to meet Bilbo's gaze so he reaches for the skillet handle, his palm wrapping around hers, big and warm.
"Four days," he corrects gently. "Four, and I love you too. No, let me say my piece," Bilbo gives Mayfair a mock-stern glance, smiling at the end of it. "You're right. About the fuss, that is. I know damned well how business goes around here, and despite everything doesn't matter."
He squeezes her fingers and together they bring the skillet off the fire because even during a serious discussion Hobbits don't waste food. "I'm eccentric, Mayfair. I'm the odd one, the one who went on an Adventure with dwarves to fight a dragon. If I choose to marry a girl from Needlehole it won't surprise anyone who's heard of me."
The laugh that bubbles out of Mayfair makes him grin, and she reaches two fingers to catch the edge of the hot cake, pulling it up and setting it on a plate. "And you're sure of that?"
"I am, and what's more, I . . . intend to."
Mayfair jerks her glance to him, her pretty lips open. Bilbo deftly plucks a chunk of hotcake and tucks it into her mouth, smirking.