"Nori? Say I needed to send a message over the mountains, and I needed to be sure the King didn't know. Could it be done, and how long would it take?"

Nori considered. "It depends on where over the mountains. Hobbiton is easy enough if it's our burglar you want, but I don't think you'd need my help if it were that simple."

"Not Hobbiton." Bofur told him the destination, and Nori grimaced.

"Not easy," he mused. "Not easy at all. It'll cost you a pretty penny."

"Nori," Bofur said patiently, "I have an entire room full of pretty pennies down in the vaults. Just tell me if it can be done."

Nori looked slightly offended that anyone would doubt him. "Of course it can be done, Bofur. Anything can be done, with enough patience and money."

Bofur certainly hoped this was true.

Because Bofur was afraid the ten of them would start drifting apart now that they were spread all over the Mountain, he instituted a monthly party. They would gather for food, ale, and song, and raise a glass to those passed on. Bofur hosted three of these parties in his quarters before Gloin caught on and invited the company to his chambers. His wife and little boy, newly arrived from the Blue Mountains, joined them as well.

The next time, Ori shyly offered to host. He had his own rooms adjacent to the archives, and it was a tight fit. But Balin had a letter from Bilbo to share, and with enough ale nobody minded being pressed up against their neighbor. Bofur was glad he had snagged a seat next to Dwalin. He drank too much ale as an excuse to lean his head back against Dwalin's shoulder, and shuddered with delight and guilt when Dwalin put a heavy arm around him to keep him from listing dangerously to one side. Dori and Balin laughed at him for not being able to hold his liquor, but Bofur couldn't bring himself to care.

"I think you're pretending to be more drunk than you are," Dwalin rumbled in his ear toward the end of the night.

Bofur grinned. "Could be, friend Dwalin," he agreed. "Could be."

Dwalin laughed quietly, and didn't move his arm.

The absolute best part of living in Erebor, as far as Bofur was concerned, was the baths. He had missed the comfort and companionship of bathing during the journey; as a miner, he had been accustomed to go daily. It was relaxation and it was bonding. You couldn't carry on a conversation down in the mines with your fellow dwarf, but you could soak with him after, share stories and song.

The baths at the Lonely Mountain were fed by volcanic springs, and were the most elaborate Bofur had ever seen. It was rumored the mines of Moria had baths even more extensive, but Bofur felt no need to go brave the Orcs to find out. Not when he could rest weary muscles at the end of the day and finally feel warm again.

It quickly became a routine: at the end of his shift, he would go up to the libraries and pry Ori away from whatever he was working on. He took turns with the other companions in this effort, but Ori was most likely to come quickly when it was Bofur or Balin fetching him, instead of asking for "one more paragraph, I'm almost done…" until Gloin dragged him off by his beard. Often the midday meal Bombur had sent up would still be on Ori's reading table untouched, and Bofur would wait for the young dwarf to scarf down a few bites before making him go be sociable.

The baths were one of Bofur's favorite things about the day, and about being a dwarf, really. It was how he got to know the dwarves in his mines, and how he made friends far and wide throughout the Mountain. There was little enough of ceremony and rank in the baths.

One evening when he came to collect Ori, he found him with Dwalin in the archive studying a map. Bofur tried not to let panic flood through him – if Dwalin wanted to go adventuring again, there was nothing Bofur could do to stop him.

"Evening, Ori, Dwalin," he greeted, and tried not to look at the map.

"Evening, Bofur." As always, Dwalin's deep voice sent a throb of awareness through him. He watched as Dwalin rolled the map and secured it in its carrying case.

"Ori, did you remember to eat today?" Bofur asked, looking around for the evidence.

"I made sure he did." Dwalin was gathering a collection of documents – he must have been here all day.

"Will you join us, Dwalin?" Ori asked, putting away the inkpots.

"Aye, perhaps, lad," Dwalin said. "I'll just stow this in my quarters. You go ahead and I'll join if I can."

Bofur frowned, because it wasn't until this very moment that he realized he'd never seen Dwalin in the baths.

Bofur waited for his friend until his fingers turned wrinkled in the hot water and he'd cycled through three different sets of bathing companions. When it hit him that Dwalin had a very good reason not to come, he felt like the worst sort of fool.

He hadn't understood how Balin could forget, could overwrite what he knew to be truth with what he wanted to be truth – but Bofur realized that he'd done the same thing.

He knew that Dwalin could never forget. Not for one day, maybe not even for an hour. It unsettled him, knowing that Dwalin must hurt with it every day. And it unsettled him, how much Bofur wished he could forget again, the way Balin already had.