Bilbo decides to wait for dawn before emerging from his room; any earlier and it might become obvious to waking dwarves that he didn't get a wink of sleep, but he needs to start on breakfast before any waking dwarves see fit to help themselves. He combs through his pack one final time, checking and double checking and triple checking that he has all he needs.
He stares at the thick pack for a moment, before muttering, "Rope. And handkerchiefs."
The handkerchiefs he keeps in a drawer of his nightstand; he picks out the heaviest ones, made for sopping up the dirt and sweat one inevitably required when gardening. First Bilbo had thought them made of the toughest material, unparalleled by any other work handkerchiefs, until he'd returned from Erebor with the handkerchief First Bofur had so kindly donated from his coat.
Bilbo's taken to referring to anything or anyone from the previous go-round as First, just for convenience's sake. For sometimes his thoughts tend to go around and around, whipping themselves in a flurry, leaving him behind confused and dazed.
Rope is kept out back, with the gardening tools and such. He looks in on the pantry on his way there, mournfully denotes the emptiness of it, and decides to filch some eggs from the Gamgees, as well as pick ripe fruits from other neighboring gardens. His own is predominantly vegetables, unfitting for breakfast, and he's never enjoyed keeping chickens.
Before the First Adventure, he'd bought what he lacked from the market. It was harder to shake off the burglar tendencies than he'd originally expected.
He is both resigned and irritated to see Thorin awake and perched on a stool, eyes flitting about the room as if expecting orcs to come out of the (tasteful, whatever Lobelia might have to say) floral wallpaper. Bilbo stops tiptoeing by, meets Thorin's eye, and gestures towards the kitchen. Thorin nods, standing and stretching. Bilbo averts his eyes from Thorin's languorous movements and scurries to the kitchen.
"I was just about to prepare breakfast, but considering you and your Company emptied my pantry last night, I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me round up the ingredients?" Bilbo whispers, fighting a mischievous smile. He fails.
Thorin stares at him in what might be astonishment for a few moments, before whispering, "Entirely at your service, Master Baggins," and matching Bilbo's expression with a rather unfair smirk of his own.
Bilbo motions him out the door, taking a calming breath or two. The hobbit would be tempted to believe that Thorin was flirting if he hadn't had to teach First Thorin what it was during their respite at Beorn's. Well, actually, he'd taught almost half the First Company what it was, when a teasing comment about Fili and Kili flirting with Ori had drawn half a dozen blank looks and careful questions. Apparently, the practice was entirely foreign to dwarves.
Although Thorin had taken to it like a duck to water in Laketown.
"What is it you wish me to do, then?" Thorin asks, adopting a normal volume once out in the yard. Bilbo pretends to examine Thorin, as if looking for proof of his usefulness. He likes the excuse to look.
"If you'd be so kind as to borrow some fruit from that garden over there," Bilbo finally says, pointing to the Bracegirdles' lot, "I'll get us some eggs. Here," he adds, grabbing a nearby bucket, "You'll need enough for a hungry host."
Thorin raises an eyebrow, "You expect me, rightful King Under the Mountain, to steal fruit from a Hobbit garden like some troublesome fauntling?"
"Only if you expect breakfast, O mighty King," Bilbo replies with a disdainful sniff. He turns and clambers over the fence, without looking at Thorin, even as his soft chuckle drifts to him.
Most of the chickens are still dozing, and Bilbo charms both the rooster and the awake chickens into silence. Not that Hamfast will truly be upset by the intrusion; they often hold steal food from one another, as they always seem to have what the other needs. However, Bilbo won't deny the fact that he wishes to impress Thorin. Waking the chickens and getting pecked to death doesn't sound very impressive.
When he returns the yard, Thorin is waiting for him, bucket almost overflowing with the variety of fruit.
"Perfect," Bilbo says, "And I've got plenty of eggs."
Thorin almost gawps at the amount of eggs Bilbo has pooled in his shirt; his dignity is maintained, but only barely.
"Don't worry, I still left plenty for the family," Bilbo continues, "they have an inordinate amount of chickens for a family of four."
They begin to head inside, but Bilbo pauses next to the shed, "Did you bring any rope with you?"
"Rope?" Thorin says, raising his eyebrow again, "I believe so, yes."
Bilbo nods, purses his lips, and ducks into the shed. He curls a sizable length of rope around his arm before emerging. Thorin shoots him a look, to which Bilbo just shrugs and says, "There's no predicting what we may need."
The dwarf makes a choked noise, and his hand twitches forward, as if to touch Bilbo's arm.
"We?"
Bilbo can feel his ears and the apples of cheeks burning, so he just nods shortly and rushes into the house.
The dwarves meet Bilbo's signature upon the contract with muted good humor, the breakfast with cheers and resounding slaps to the back, and Thorin's role in producing the breakfast with laughter and cries of "What use is a hobbit burglar when we have a king burglar?"
Thorin's quiet response of "Why send the pupil when you can send the master?" does far more to soothe the sting than Bofur and the younger boys' rueful smiles.
Breakfast is quickly done away with, and the houseguests send Bilbo to pack while they clear away the mess. He spends an uncomfortable half hour sitting on his bed, twiddling his thumbs and occasionally flinching at fairly forboding noises coming from the kitchen.
When the party finally departs, the sound of his beloved green door swinging shut inexplicably seems much more so a promise than an end. Bilbo beams at it, unwilling to fight the victorious wiggle in his stomach.
He's going to see mountains again.