Chapter Four: Unsuspecting Victim (Of Erebor's Hospitality)
Pale cards around an empty bedside.
Curtains drawn back on dead machines.
Professional words of failure fill grieving ears.
Bilbo was so engrossed in his frenetic cleaning that he only noticed that it was well past lunchtime when his gut violently protested at its lack of attention. Uneager to challenge his ever hungry stomach he abandoned his work for the morning. The cleaning has left him in a good mood, so he sets about making his food with a cheery but determined air.
It takes some time to find the pots and pans in his new kitchen. One would have thought cooking implements would be kept rather near the stove- where one typically cooks food at- but apparently they do things quite differently here in Erebor and he finally finds them in a cupboard in the laundry- the next room across from the kitchen. Their queer displacement is something that will have to be remedied rather quickly, Bilbo thinks.
There's a loaf of bread (fresh, and what looks to be bakery made) sitting in a little breadbox on the counter, and a block of sharp and crumbly cheddar cheese in his terribly old looking fridge. A number of good quality tins of sardines sit amongst an assortment of baking goods in the pantry.
He reminds himself to properly thank Gandalf for the thoughtfulness of his housewarming. It's as if the strange man knows exactly what Bilbo loves- although given his relation to Anaya, that may be less of a surprise than one would think.
He's halfway through the movement of sitting down to a scrumptious looking cheese toastie with sardines when the knock comes. He freezes in his action; good mood dissipating slightly at the disruption. He shares a look with Wraith, who is sitting (once again) on his table and had previously been greedily eyeing his kippers.
The knocking comes again, and Bilbo sighs heavily, pushing his chair away from the table and makes his way to the front door. He makes sure to move his meal to a place with a higher altitude in order to deter the cat from eating his meal before him, which would very likely be his luck.
When he opens the door, he finds a large, fierce looking man standing impatiently on the other side. His head is mostly bald, but for the circle of thick dark hair that rings about it at ear level. He's vaguely reminded of a monk, if they were more into motorcycles and growing copious amounts of facial hair than worshipping God and being all pious. Not that he's going to tell the man on his doorstep that because holy cow he looks like he could break him in half with a single finger and sweet mother of God are those tattoos on his scalp?
"Um… Hello?" Bilbo offers instead of the terrified squeak he feels like making, though honestly it's not far off. It doesn't help that the man positively towers over him (not that Bilbo was ever what you would call tall to begin with).
"You Bilbo Baggins?" The stranger asks in a deep, gruff voice.
"Yes?" He's not entirely sure what to do. On the one hand this could just be a friendly household call from the locals and he'd rather make a good impression on them given where he plans to live for the next unspecified amount of years. On the other, the bloke doesn't exactly look terribly friendly. He looks rather grumpy actually- and maybe just a little bit embarrassed- like someone's made him knock on Bilbo's door.
"Good." And with that the man lets himself in, squeezing past Bilbo who is still holding the door open.
He stares out at his overgrown garden for slightly longer than the average glance in astonishment. Letting themselves in unannounced is most certainly becoming a thing for the locals in Erebor. He's not entirely sure what to think about that. Does that make them more friendly? Or simply ruder?
When he gathers enough courage to turn around, he finds that his guest is waiting for him in the kitchen.
He's also helped himself to his lunch.
Which is lovely, honestly. Bilbo didn't even want to eat that sandwich.
Good mood now well and truly gone, he stands uncertainly at the doorway to the kitchen. The stranger graciously notes his presence with an assessing look through bushy eyebrows.
"The name's Dwalin. Am I the first?"
"What? The first?" Bilbo stammers, "Yes- well I mean Gandalf was here last night and this morning, but is he really from Erebor? Anaya told me he wasn't… really…" he trails off under the weight of Dwalin's stare.
"So I'm the first."
"Yes?" Dwalin goes back to Bilbo's meal. Once again he's struck by the one sided awkwardness of the silence, and in a fit of anxiety he blurts out "would you like some tea?"
Honestly it's a reflex reaction.
"Coffee… please." The 'please' is added on like an afterthought. Completely ignoring the absurdity of the situation, he turns the kettle on and makes up a mug of instant coffee. His guess is his guest likes it black, strong and no sugar, but he doesn't dare ask to see if his assumption is correct.
"They say you're the new doctor." Dwalin interjects into the sounds of coffee-making. Bilbo freezes, then puts the jug down carefully. He's only a great deal confused by the statement.
"I'm not the new doctor." He says very slowly, "Just a new resident."
"But you're a doctor, aren't you?" Bilbo sighs heavily.
"Well, yes- but I quit the profession a while ago. I didn't come here to-"
"So you are the new doctor then."
"No, I am not. I did not move to Erebor so I could be your new GP!" Bilbo is getting rather annoyed now, as he always does when someone brings up his old job. And this is not something he wants to talk about with a stranger who's helped himself to his lunch.
"I've got a problem with my hands. They're-"
"Look, I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. It's been wonderful meeting you, but really, it's time for you to go."
Bilbo stares at them. His nostrils might be flaring; he is very worked up.
Dwalin looks as if he is about to say something rude when he is stopped by a knock at the door.
"That'll be the door." he finally says, when it becomes obvious that Bilbo's not about to make a move to answer it.
He walks to his front door in a daze. This is not how he'd thought his first day in Erebor would pan out. It was supposed to be a boring day full of cleaning and maybe a little gardening thrown in at the end. There was certainly not supposed to be any mad locals letting themselves in and eating his food without so much as a 'by your leave'.
And to assume he was a practicing GP no less!
More beard greets him when he grumpily swings open the door. This time it's white- he expects the next one will be blue- or purple. Some ridiculous colour to fill out the door-beard-greeting-rainbow. He also finds, then looking closer at said beard that there is a jovial looking old man with a large nose and even bigger ears attached.
"Hello," he says cheerily, "You must be the new doctor." Bilbo stares at the man, aghast. He honestly has no idea who they've gotten the idea of him being their new GP from, but when he does he's going to strangle them. Slowly. Personally he suspects Anaya, but that Gandalf fellow seems like a crafty bastard too.
"Apparently he's not a doctor anymore," Dwalin calls out from the kitchen. The old man grins at the sound, and for the third time that day a guest lets themselves into Bilbo's abode.
There's probably a vein pulsing dangerously on his forehead by now. The sheer audacity of these Ereborites! Why did they never put this in their little please-come-and-populate-our-town-it's-really-love ly-we-swear pamphlet? Though he supposes if their little blurb about the place said 'be prepared to have your home invaded by complete strangers who will insist that you are something you would very much rather not be' they probably wouldn't get many takers.
When he walks back into his kitchen- his daze well and truly in force now- he finds the two men have already bypassed greetings. Fortunately, Balin did not see fit to help himself to Bilbo's pantry or fridge. He has however finished off the coffee he'd been making for Dwalin and is now happily sipping away as he sits next to the taller man.
Wraith watches disdainfully from the counter, tail twitching occasionally. Bilbo agrees completely.
"I really am sorry. But what are you doing here?" He asks when he finally gathers his frayed thoughts together. Balin watches his over the rim of his coffee.
"Well we were here to greet the new doctor."
"Which I clearly am not."
"It would seem so. A shame really, because Erebor hasn't had a resident doctor for about eight years. Not since the last one died."
"Died?" Bilbo squeaks.
"Aye," says Dwalin, "Just went and offed himself outta the blue." Bilbo eyes the exits nervously.
"That's a… lovely... Really."
Balin rolls his eyes in exasperation, "What he means is we need ourselves a new doctor. Dale is almost an hour's drive away. We need someone who lives in the town to fix us. And you, Mister Baggins, are a doctor. Gandalf found you for us himself."
"I'm not a doctor anymore. I quit."
"And why did you quit Mister Baggins? Surely our need is greater than any personal reasons for leaving the profession." Bilbo's face- which had previously been an open book to his guests- suddenly shuts off.
"I'm going to ask you to leave, please." He says in a cold, dead voice. The men eye each-other uneasily. This isn't what they'd expected when Gandalf had warned them that he'd be reluctant. Even so, Balin tries one last attempt to reason with the newcomer.
"Mister Baggins. Erebor needs a doctor. We're not getting any younger and the trip to Dale certainly isn't getting any shorter. The sense of common decency would be to work for us."
Bilbo snaps.
"Common decency!" he screeches. Balin flinches at the shrill noise, "Common decency? You people wouldn't know common decency if it danced the Macarena naked in front of you! You help yourselves to my home- my food- barging in like you own the bloody place and you have the-the nerve to talk to me about common decency!"
He walks out of the kitchen angrily; they hear the front door open.
"Now get out!" Bilbo shrieks from the parlour.
Balin and Dwalin share a look of muted resignation before they stand- too slowly for their host's liking if the "Out- out- get out!" is anything to go by.
As soon as they are out on the threshold, the door slams shut behind them. They can still hear Mister Baggins muttering to himself in outrage as he walks away into the depths of his new home. They take a moment to recollect themselves. An angry little spitfire of a man was not what they'd been expecting to have to work at. Dwalin thinks he'll have to have 'words' with Gandalf, if that was what he meant by 'a little on the aloof side.' Balin has just realized that he's still grasping Bilbo's mug.
"Fussy wee lad isn't he?" He says as he sheepishly sits the mug down on the doorstep- safely out of reach of any swinging door before striding quickly to catch up with his brother, who hadn't bothered to wait.
"Aye." Dwalin replies succinctly. His brother had always been the conversationalist. Balin is well used to carrying his conversations on by himself with the minimum input.
"Can't say that talk about the last Doctor helped our cause much though."
"Aye."
"I think it be best if we worked on him a bit before we bring out the big guns though. What say you?"
"Aye."
"My thoughts exactly."
"Don't really seem like a doctor though does 'e?"
"Hmm- more a grocer than a doctor. But I have every faith in Gandalf's selection."
"Aye. He best be right about this bloke though." Balin studies his brother curiously.
"You can feel it too?" he asks as they turn out of Bilbo's little culdesac. Dwalin nods grimly.
"Something's afoot. Troubles a'brewin. We're gonna need him, I fear." It's probably the longest string of conversation he's said all day. Balin is used to this by now though.
"You and me both, brother." He says quietly, clapping the younger on the back, "You and me both."
Inside a little house at the end of a little street, hazel eyes watch guiltily as the two brothers walk away.
So much for making a good impression.