Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The single young man in his thirties had graduated from The Imperial College in London and had been working on translations of medieval texts for years. His work right after graduating was quite obscure; he often spent days and nights secluded in his office at home, elaborating the proper grammar and lyricism of old vernacular epics. Son of a very adventurous Irish woman, Belladonna Took, and a very respected English man, Bungo Baggins, they were loving parents, very supportive of his career, especially his father, who was ecstatic with his work on Beowulf, a classic.

His mother, Belladonna Took, was an adventurous Irish artist, a woman full of life and colour who had always encouraged Bilbo to step outside his scholarly cocoon. ‘The world is bigger than your books, darling’, she used to say. It was quite a shock for the young man when both his parents passed away in a sudden and violent car crash; the shock of it had been paralysing. Unable to bear the emptiness of their house in Loughton, the weight of his grief pressing down on him, Bilbo abandoned his work. For the first time in his life, he had set aside manuscripts and translations in favour of wandering, seeking... something. What, exactly, he hadn't known.

Maybe he would find himself along the road.

The adventure did not last as long as he had wished. His funds were not infinite, after all, and neither was fate's patience. Too soon into his mourning-induced journey, a call had come from his twice-removed great-aunt Mirabella. Her daughter, Primula, and son-in-law, Drogo, had perished in a tragic accident, leaving behind their ten-year-old son, Frodo.

Mirabella, once a formidable woman, had aged greatly. She had lost her husband, Gorbadoc, years before, and now this final sorrow had weighed her down. She pleaded with Bilbo to come back, to take the boy in, for she could not take care of him. And so, Bilbo had returned to London, unemployed, near penniless, and with a traumatised orphan under his care.

His financial situation could have been worse. He had his parents' estate and some savings, but that would not last forever. Even before he arrived back home, he had sent out emails seeking employment in his field.

Frodo was a shy boy. He had always been, and now even more so. Bilbo, who had barely learned to care for himself, found the first few weeks of settling him utterly exhausting. He fixed up a room for the boy, learned the route to his school, one that was not particularly close, but Bilbo could not bring himself to part Frodo from his friends.

Then, at last, an answer arrived. The National Museum of London had offered him a position working on their private collection, restoring and translating ancient texts. The best part is that the position could be permanent. And so, the first month of his return slipped through his fingers like sand, full of small victories and quiet exhaustion.

For his first day, Bilbo dressed as any bookworm in his thirties would: black ankle boots with thick soles, tweed trousers, and a coffee-coloured jumper with thick cream stripes, neatly tucked into his waistband and held in place by a leather belt.

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he was, when he stepped into the museum's archives and was immediately greeted by the scent of old paper and leather bindings. It wrapped around him like a warm embrace. He had spent so long in mourning, in worry, in uncertainty. But here, in these musty corridors lined with centuries of knowledge, he felt at ease. As he wove between towering shelves, searching for the staff entrance, his nerves began to pool in his stomach. His palms were damp. His heart beat just a little too quickly. Was he being ridiculous? It was just a job. Just a room full of scholars, like himself.

And yet, today marked the beginning of a new chapter. A new family. A new job. Maybe even some friends. Was he childish to hope for that? To want it?

At last, he found the right door. Bilbo sighed, straightening the collar of the cream shirt that peeked from beneath his jumper. After a moment's hesitation, he pushed it open.

He recognised the responsible professor, Gandalf Grey, an esteemed, if somewhat eccentric, scholar with more stamps in his passport than most libraries had books on their shelves. The old man was known for his sharp mind, his disregard for bureaucratic nonsense, and, oddly enough, his fondness for good pipeweed. What Bilbo had not expected, however, was the expression of utter shock that crossed the professor's face when their eyes met.

Bilbo remembered the old man from a few of his mother's tales; they had traveled far and wide in each other's company. It had been an unexpected surprise when the museum answer had the old man's name signed on the bottom of rhe page. It was ironic that the man who dragged his mother in the most wild adventures, had hired him, offering not only a job but a fresh start, something Bilbo had been in desperate need of. Especially now that he had taken in young Frodo.

He glanced down at the printed email; he was like that, you could call him old-fashioned. But you can't blame a writer for liking paper. He reread the number of the room about a thousand times, with the Professor's digital signature at the very bottom of the page. Bilbo had never personally met the man, but his reputation preceded him; the man was known for his keen eye, sharp wit, and a very bright disregard for bureaucratic nonsense.

His soft auburn curls shimmered in the sunlight that dripped through a window with colourful panes, depicting classics of English literature. He had only been standing there for a moment when a voice, deep and rich with authority, rang out across the wooden hallway.

“Ah! There you are, my new recruit! Baggins, wasn't it?”

Bilbo turned and found himself face to face with an old man who looked exactly as he had imagined: tall, imposing, and a tad dishevelled. His grey beard was long; it shimmered in strands of white. His eyes were blue and piercing. He stood leaning on a cane, a very decorated cane, with engravings of flames carved into the dark wood at the head. A wooden pipe fit perfectly at the top.

The old man watched him with curious eyes, glinting almost mischievously. His eyebrows knitted together, as if he had finished his overall analysis of Bilbo, and finally he spoke.

Bilbo nodded politely. His sharp blue eyes narrowed, searching Bilbo's face with something akin to disbelief. He leaned on his cane, not for support, but as though he needed something to wave around as he spoke.

“You…” Gandalf's voice softened. “You have her eyes.”

Bilbo blinked. “Pardon?”

The old man took a step closer, a wild sparkle burning behind the blue.

“Belladonna.” The name hung in the air between them. Gandalf's voice wavered slightly. “Baggins? Of course, that was Bungo's last name! You are her-”

Bilbo swallowed.

“Her son.”

A long silence followed. The bustling sounds of the museum beyond these walls faded to nothing.

Gandalf whispered the words, as if tasting them.

“Belladonna's son.”

Bilbo nodded.

The old scholar let out a breath, shaking his head with a rueful chuckle. “Well, bless me… I never knew she had a child.”

Bilbo felt a sharp pang of sorrow at that. His mother did not have the time to tell him of all her adventures, of the companions she had once shared them with. And a couple of them she chose not to share, particularly the ones involving the dubious oldman, perhaps she had chosen to settle down, or because she tought it was better for Bilbo not to learn certain things.

“I suppose she never told you,” Bilbo said quietly.

Gandalf's expression dimmed, as if bracing himself for what would come next.

“And where is she now?”

Bilbo hesitated. Then, just as quietly,

“Well, she is-" He choked for a second, fumbling with his words." She is dead, her and father. ”

The weight of those words settled heavily between them. Gandalf's weathered face softened with grief. He glanced away, swallowing hard, before clearing his throat.

“I see,” he said at last, his voice quieter than before. “She was remarkable, you know. Fierce as one can be. And one of the greatest painters of our age.”

Bilbo smiled sadly. “Yes. She was.”

Then, at last, Gandalf drew in a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Well then, Baggins—Bilbo. This is quite the twist of fate, isn't it?” A wry smile tugged at his lips. “Hiring you without realising who you were… You must forgive an old man for being caught off guard.”

Bilbo smiled, and the old scholar let out a hearty chuckle, his sorrow momentarily softened.

“Very well, very well! You have work to do, my boy, and I intend to see you earn your keep.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said, straightening.

“Good lad,” Gandalf said. But as he turned to lead Bilbo deeper into the museum, there was a new warmth in his voice. A quiet fondness.

The supervisor of the restoration department was a middle-aged man named Dori. And Dori was, well, intense, very demanding, and politely neurotic in a way that only truly meticulous people could be. Pristine in his white gloves, his half-moon spectacles perched precisely on the bridge of his nose, he carried an air of quiet disapproval about him, like a murder in a cornfield.

“You must be Baggins,” he said, looking Bilbo up and down as if assessing a piece of second-rate parchment. “I suppose you’ll do.”

“Charmed,” Bilbo replied, trying not to smirk. The man’s silver hair was tied in a neat low bun, his beard perfectly trimmed and, the Goddess bless his eyes, even braided at the edges.

“We’ll be working closely, so let’s be clear: this department maintains the highest standards. Sloppiness will not be tolerated. If a manuscript is worth preserving, it is worth doing so flawlessly.”

“I quite agree,” Bilbo said, which seemed to surprise Dori.

“Hmph. Well. At least you have the right attitude. Your desk is there. Do not clutter it.”

The younger man took his seat with an internal sigh of relief. That could have gone worse. As it stood, it could also have gone far better. Dori had a terrifying level of perfectionism, from the way he maintained his desk to the painstaking care he put into every brushstroke and varnish cleaning. The first manuscript Bilbo was handed was a weathered scroll from the 14th century, its ink faded, its edges fragile as autumn leaves. It was absolutely exhilarating. He straightened the scroll on the proper desk and carefully traced the faded script.

The hours melted away. He had forgotten how much he loved his craft. It was only when his stomach growled in protest that he remembered he was, in fact, human, and in need of sustenance. The employees’ lounge was typical of any museum, tucked away between marble columns, thick wooden shelves, and artefacts encased in crystal glass. A small, unassuming door led to their little nook, hidden away from the grandeur of the rest of the building.

It wasn’t bad. No, not bad. But of questionable hygiene, certainly.

The chairs had definitely seen better decades, and the coffee machine in the corner had probably never been cleaned—not once, in its entire existence. Still, its red light filled Bilbo with a determination akin to a rising sun. He poured himself a cup, took a sip, and grimaced. It was strong enough to peel paint off the walls, with the lingering aftertaste of a neglected coffee machine (again, that has likely never been washed). Yet he could get used to that.

As he settled onto a sagging sofa, he became aware of a small figure sitting cross-legged on the floor, crayons and sketchbooks strewn about. His eyes must have given away his surprise, because the child looked up at him with a grin.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

The boy’s bright ginger hair, neatly cut in a bowl shape, had tiny braids tucked behind his ears. He wore a purple jumper with the figure of a cat on it, it looked handcrafted, very sweet.

“Ah, yes. Are you someone’s child?” Bilbo crouched beside him.

“I’m Ori. Dori is my brother.”

Bilbo blinked. He did not look old enough to be the man’s brother. Then again, he didn’t actually know how old Dori was.

“I suppose you’re waiting for him?”

Ori’s large brown eyes brightened as he nodded.

“Dori says the museum is no place for children to roam alone. But I like it here.”

Bilbo could sympathise. He had spent much of his own childhood tucked away in libraries and museums, preferring the company of books and artefacts to the boisterous chaos of rowdy playgrounds. The boy handed him a few crayons and a blank sheet of paper, and with barely a word exchanged, they doodled together in companionable silence.

“Where do you go to school?” Bilbo asked, attempting conversation.

“I go to Moss,” Ori replied, his voice pensive. “I like it there. There’s a big library and a flower field nearby.”

Bilbo perked up.

“My kid goes there too!” he said, as he painted a particularly confounded-looking tree.

Ori side-eyed him suspiciously, as if assessing the truth of this claim.

“You don’t look like you have a kid.”

Bilbo tried not to be offended.

“My nephew lives with me. His name is Frodo. Perhaps you know him?”

The boy froze. Of course he knew Frodo—the boy whose parents had tragically passed away not so long ago.

“He’s in my class. And Kíli’s.” Ori’s voice lowered to a whisper. “But he’s very quiet.”

Bilbo nodded, his chest tightening. He knew Frodo was struggling, his nature was very shy, and the grief did nothing in his favour. The boy had lost so much, and Bilbo, despite trying his best, wasn’t always sure how to help.

By the time Bilbo returned to his desk, the museum had grown quieter. The tourists had trickled out, leaving only the dedicated scholars and restoration experts still toiling away under the dim, warm light. He looked down at the manuscript before him, running a finger over its delicate edges. Somewhere, centuries ago, another scholar had done the same, traced these lines, poured their thoughts into ink, and worked tirelessly to preserve knowledge for future generations. And just like him now, likely the monk who had written it, sacrificed his sex life as well.

Frodo had beamed the moment his school announced a holiday, for they were the busiest days at the museum, and he would likely spend the day there beside his uncle as he worked. Bilbo, on the other hand, was very nervous about taking the boy. On holidays and weekends, he was often called to keep an eye on exhibitions, as the usual staff were under-equipped to handle the volume of people. It wasn’t that he minded having the boy around—far from it. But Frodo had never spent a full day at the museum before, and he had an inkling that keeping him entertained in the dusty lounge, other than walking around dinosaur bones and old, stolen cultural artefacts, might prove to be a challenge.

Still, Frodo had been oddly excited that morning, quietly thrilled at the prospect of spending the day at work with him. So, after ensuring the boy was properly bundled up in his bright sky-blue sweater, it had a little stitched landscape of a forest, which Bilbo found adorable, he took him along, hoping the boy wouldn’t be too disappointed.

To his immense relief, they hadn’t even reached his desk before a familiar bright ginger-haired boy came bounding towards them.

“Frodo!” Ori beamed, his purple jumper slightly oversized, as if it had once belonged to someone else.

“Ori. ” Frodo greeted back, his voice softer, but no less pleased.

“You get to stay all day today?” Ori’s excitement was uncontainable.

The blue-eyed boy nodded.

“Yes.”

“Oh, this is going to be brilliant.”

Bilbo exhaled, a small smile forming on his lips. Little Ori saved the day. He settled the both of them in the employees’ lounge, providing plenty of snacks and lots of paper for them to draw on. It was going far too well. He should have suspected something was up.

The boy hadn’t asked him once to roam around the museum.

The boys spent the first few hours behaving perfectly in the lounge. Bilbo checked on them periodically, ensuring that the boys hadn’t somehow set the coffee machine on fire or decided to change the couches’ colour using crayons.

At lunchtime, however, the mutiny started.

Ori looked around conspiratorially and whispered,

“D’you want to see the museum?”

Frodo’s blue eyes widened.

“Uncle said we shouldn’t leave the room alone.”

Ori shrugged, as if this were a minor inconvenience.

Bilbo had strictly told Frodo to stay put. And Dori—Dori had all but forbidden Ori from wandering by himself.

But the museum was so big, and so very interesting.

The boy was usually cautious, but between seeing dinosaurs and things older than the whole city of London, he felt a burst of adventure stir inside him.

“Alright,” he said.

Their giggles of mischief flooded the halls as they slipped out hand in hand. For two boys who absolutely shouldn’t have been wandering unsupervised, they had an absolutely marvellous time. They scurried through the exhibits, speaking loudly and excitedly as they marvelled at the giant dinosaur skeleton. Ori made up facts about the creatures, half of them wildly incorrect, but entertaining nonetheless.

Frodo was thrilled to learn that the triceratops’ favourite drink was the same as his, Sprite.

In the Ancient Egypt wing, the boy stood in awed silence before the golden sarcophagi, his fingers trailing oily prints over the glass. They both got scared of the mummies, which, in fairness, were quite terrifying. He was not shy to tell Ori that, in old times, people used to consume tiny mummy pieces as medicine.

“Do you think they were lonely?” he asked, almost hesitantly.

Ori tilted his head.

“Who?”

“The pharaohs,” Frodo murmured. “They brought him here to be alone, instead of with his mummy family.”

Ori was thoughtful for a moment.

“Maybe. But they have new friends now, right? He can always play with the cavemen and dinosaurs. That’s probably even cooler.”

Frodo’s lips twitched into a small smile. They poked their heads into the medieval weaponry display, where Ori wielded an imaginary sword and Frodo corrected his stance (courtesy of Bilbo and his adventures). They duelled between the visitors, brushing past legs and bumping into purses. They darted through the fossil rooms, admired royal artefacts, and peeked into the map collections. Every so often, an unsuspecting employee would spot them, but before anyone could say anything, they’d vanish around the corner like ghosts.

Eventually, their little tour led them to the gift shop, they both grinned ear to ear, their pockets already full of museum brochures and pins. They hadn't completed a single trivia, but they collected the prizes anyway, purely for the sake of it. The museum gift shop was quiet at this hour, save for a friendly-looking man at the counter. His brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and he wore a floppy hat that looked entirely ridiculous.

His eyes lit up when he saw them.

“Oh! You two must be Dori’s little brother and Baggins’ boy,” he said knowingly.

Ori blinked.

“How did you know?”

He gave them a pointed look, amusement dancing in his gaze.

“You are the only two children who walked in here alone.”

Frodo blushed furiously.

“Don’t worry,” he added with a chuckle. “I won’t tell. In fact—” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a grand secret—“you can each pick something out, and I’ll put it on their tab.”

Ori’s eyes went comically wide.

“You mean, for free?”

“For now,” he corrected. “They’ll pay for it later.”

Frodo hesitated.

“Are you sure?”

The man smiled.

“Absolutely.”

And so, with great reverence, they roamed the shop. Ori immediately grabbed a notebook with a medieval dragon print. Frodo, after much deliberation, selected a large triceratops plushie. They returned to the counter, beaming.

“Excellent choices,” the man declared, wrapping Ori’s notebook carefully.

As they turned to leave, he called after them—

“Try not to get caught!”

“Thanks, Bofur!” Ori beamed at him.

Bofur chuckled, leaning against the counter.

Frodo, clutching his blue dinosaur, grinned.

“Thanks too, Mister Bofur!”

Frodo clutched his newly acquired stuffed animal, a very blue triceratops, against his chest. Ori, beside him, proudly held his notebook, already scribbling some profound observations about their adventure—or, more likely, drawing stick figures of him and Frodo holding hands with mummies and dinosaurs. They had no destination in mind now, choosing to simply explore, when they heard a familiar voice.

“Oi! What are you two doing here?”

Frodo turned to see Kíli, one of their classmates, standing near the geology section. He had dark unruly hair, an impish grin, and a mildly alarming amount of energy at all times.

Before he could answer, the boy gestured wildly.

“Come on! My brother is inside! I want you to meet him!”

He launched into a rapid explanation, words spilling out at a speed unknown to mankind, mostly about how it was an absolute tragedy that they’d never met his brother before. Apparently, despite only studying in another building, Fíli’s absence from their daily school life was akin to being separated at war, across oceans, for decades. Frodo had barely processed any of this, or even what "inside" meant, before Kíli grabbed his wrist and pulled him along.

Ori, without hesitation, followed, as if this were the most natural decision in the world. They ducked under a rope barrier, slipping past the "RESTRICTED ACCESS" sign without a second thought.

Frodo swallowed nervously. The geology collection stretched before them, towering crystal formations, individuals fossilised in gems, and geodes the size of small boulders, hollowed out to reveal sparkling amethyst interiors.

Fíli, the older brother, was already there, lounging on a bench like he owned the place. At seventeen, he was far taller than all of them, with golden hair tied back in a loose ponytail, boots scuffed from what could only be assumed was teenage rebellion. His black t-shirt hung loosely, one earphone inserted, the other dangling from his neckline. Frodo, slightly overwhelmed, hesitated.

“Are we… supposed to be here?”

“Nope,” Fíli said cheerfully. “But don’t worry. Uncle runs this place.”

Ori finally seemed to realise the situation they had landed in.

He eyed the teenager warily, taking in the black clothes, the piercing on his lower lip, the chains on his trousers. He turned to Frodo, who was already staring at him. That didn’t exactly sound reassuring. Kíli, however, had already clambered inside a giant geode, his voice echoing dramatically.

“Behold! I am the king of the crystals!”

Ori, not one to be left behind, scrambled in after him. Frodo sighed. He was far too shy to declare himself king of anything, but…

Well.

They were already here, and he had to admit, the crystals were rather beautiful. Cautiously, he stepped inside, running his fingers along the cool, shimmering walls. The ginger boy perched himself on the spiky surface, already scribbling in his notebook.

“Oi, what are you writing?” Fíli grinned, hunching over to peek at the notes.

“A scientific report,” Ori answered, very serious.

Fíli smirked, nudging Kíli.

“See? Someone here is actually using their brain.”

Before Ori could bask in the compliment, Kíli, ever the menace, started making explosion noises.

“Boom! The meteor is crashing!” he cried, shaking the edges dramatically.

Frodo, laughing despite himself, clutched his plush triceratops protectively.

“Stop! You’ll break it!”

The noise escalated, the stomping of Fíli’s large boots, their voices echoing, Kíli’s sound effects becoming increasingly dramatic. Then a much heavier set of footsteps approached, and a voice, deep, authoritative, and absolutely unimpressed, cut through their chaos.

“Fíli. Kíli.”

Silence, the boys froze.

Their uncle, Thorin Durin stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression grim. He was typically a quiet man, but his presence was intense, he was broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and entirely too handsome to be a geologist. Dressed in a crisp black shirt, his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms dusted with rock fragments, he radiated authority. His sharp blue eyes flickered between his nephews and the two unfamiliar boys standing beside them.

“What,” he said slowly, “is going on here?”

Fíli, who had been casually reclining just moments ago, immediately sat up straight.

“Nothing,” he said, far too quickly.

Kíli, eagerly tried to grin his way out of trouble.

“Just—uh—educating our friends about geodes?”

Thorin's gaze snapped to Frodo and Ori, as if only now realising there were two extra unknown children involved. He narrowed his eyes.

“You are Dori’s boy,” he stated, his gaze then fixing on Frodo. “And you?”

Fíli gestured grandly.

“This,” he declared, with a flourish, “is Frodo Baggins.”

Thorin’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Baggins?”

“He’s Bilbo’s kid,” Kíli supplied helpfully.

Thorin blinked. “Who is Bilbo?”

Fíli grinned wickedly.

“The new guy in the book thing. The one with the round glasses. The one you keep staring at at every given chance.”

His face visibly twitched.

“I don’t stare at anyone, Fíli.”

“Sure,” his nephew shrugged, “if you say so.”

“They were walking about and we met them by the fossils,” Fíli continued.

Thorin’s jaw tightened.

“They were alone?”

Fíli nodded positively.

His fingers curled into a fist.

“Does anyone know you are here?” His voice was low, measured. “Does anyone know where you are?” The two younger boys exchanged a long look, before turning to him and shaking their heads. “Great.”

The raven haired man exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple, this was a problem. Because now, instead of simply yelling at his nephews, he had to escort four children through the entire museum—back to the library section, where their respective guardians were undoubtedly worried sick. He glanced at the four guilty faces staring up at him. With an aggrieved sigh, he turned sharply on his heel.

“Come on,” he muttered.

And, like ducklings following their angry goose mother, they trailed after him.

The walk back was long, Frodo clutched his triceratops plushie tighter, as if it could somehow shield him from the inevitable scolding. Ori hugged his notebook to his chest, looking like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him here, sweet Kíli, was blissfully unconcerned, mouthed explosion noises behind Thorin’s back. Fíli, rolling his eyes, elbowed him sharply, muttering,

“Shut up, you absolute twat.”

By the time they reached the library section, Bilbo and Dori were already fretting by the front desk, speaking to a security guard, their expressions a mix of worry and impending fury. The moment their eyes landed on the four guilty-looking boys, Bilbo’s shoulders sagged in visible relief. Dori, on the other hand, looked like he was seconds away from combusting. His face was bright red, and his brows had practically merged into one. Thorin folded his arms, standing like a grumpy security escort.

“I believe these belong to you,” he said dryly.

Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth.

“Frodo.”

The boy bit his lip.

“We just wanted to see the museum,” he admitted, voice small.

Dori was glaring daggers at Ori, who looked like he was preparing to be banished from existence itself. In a desperate attempt to defuse the situation, Fíli stepped forward smoothly.

“No harm done, yeah?” He flashed his most charming grin. “They had fun. Learned a bit. Became men of science.”

Dori’s eye twitched violently, Bilbo just sighed, rubbing his temple.

“Alright,” he muttered. “We will have a good conversation about this when we get home.”

The boys nodded meekly. The older man was still muttering furiously under his breath—something about an “unbelievable lack of supervision”—while Thorin grumbled about wild children infesting his collection. Kíli, not reading the room whatsoever, suddenly grinned at the younger boys.

“That was brilliant. Same time next week?”

Ori and Frodo both grinned back, giving him a thumbs up, Bilbo and Dori groaned in unison, and Thorin facepalmed loudly. As much as he hated to admit that Thorin’s older nephew had a point, maybe—just maybe—he had been staring at Bilbo. The auburn curls, the warm brown eyes behind round glasses, the way he gestured dramatically when flustered—

No. No, he wasn’t staring.

Even if he had wanted to say something reasonable, the words died in his throat every time Bilbo looked at him like that. So instead, he did what he did best—he complained.

“They were coerced by my impish nephews to play inside the collection of geodes,” Thorin said, voice tight with frustration. “They were lucky nothing was broken. They could have gotten hurt—or worse, we could have lost precious pieces of the exhibition.”

That was not quite what he meant to say, but it was still reasonable. Except Bilbo’s deep brown eyes were narrowed dangerously, and his auburn curls caught the light just so, and Thorin suddenly felt dumber than a box of rocks. The smaller man crossed his arms, his jaw tightening.

“Your area should have been better secured! What were your nephews doing there anyway? God knows if Frodo was caught ‘playing’ with the scrolls and books, he’d be done for!”

Thorin’s patience was thinning like overstretched pastry dough, and no pretty face could save Bilbo from his burning temper. His fingers curled into a fist.

“I did not allow them to play in the restricted area, Doctor Baggins.”

Bilbo let out a sharp, incredulous huff of laughter, stepping forward.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Doctor Durin,” he snapped, voice rising in pitch. “I must have missed the part where your PhD in Geology makes you an expert in child-rearing!”

Thorin’s blue eyes flashed.

“And I must have missed the part where a mere translator thinks he’s a fit guardian.”

The words landed with the force of a well-aimed book to the face, Fíli and Kíli stiffened, Ori’s mouth fell open. Frodo, beside Bilbo, shrunk slightly, as the man’s breath caught in his throat.

“A mere—” He laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “A mere translator? Is that what you think I do?”

Thorin folded his arms, meeting his glare without flinching.

“You allowed your boy to slip away from you without noticing,” he said, tone low and measured. “That is not the mark of a responsible guardian.”

Bilbo’s chest burned.

“And you allowed your own nephews into a restricted geological collection, where they proceeded to cause mayhem! You, the Head of the Department, Doctor Durin! Is that the mark of a responsible supervisor?”

Thorin’s fingers twitched dangerously.

“I was working,” he growled.

“So was I,” Bilbo shot back.

Thorin scoffed, shaking his head.

“Yes, of course—painstakingly copying down centuries-old words and rearranging them into somewhat coherent sentences—”

“I am a Doctor of Philology, you glorified rock collector!” Bilbo shouted.

Fíli mouthed ‘Oh, shit’, as Kíli bit his fist to keep from laughing. Thorin took a step forward, his broad frame looming over the other man’s soft looking frame.

“I preserve history,” he growled. “You scribble little dusted papers on it.”

Bilbo took a step forward too, nose mere inches away from Thorin’s.

“I bring voices back to life,” he hissed. “You dust off shiny little rocks and pretend they matter.”

The temperature of the room plummeted, Thorin’s nostrils flared.

“Say that again.”

“Shiny. Little. Rocks.”

The vein in Thorin’s temple pulsed dangerously, before either of them could take another step and rocks and books turned into weapons, a sharp voice cut through the air.

“Enough!”

Dori’s spectacles flashed in the dim light as he stormed between them, his face a mask of sheer disappointment.

“This is a museum, not a bloody tavern fight,” he snapped.

Bilbo and Thorin glared at each other, breathing hard, too furious to speak, Dori adjusted his gloves menacingly.

“I don’t care how many letters come before your names. I will personally staple your credentials to your foreheads if you continue squabbling like schoolboys. More than schoolboys in fact!” He pointed at said young man. Silence loomed in the room. Bilbo turned on his heel, muttering curses with a terribly Scottish accent under his breath. “I expect apologies all around.” The geologist grumbled something unintelligible, the lyricist, however, was done. Absolutely, completely done, he whirled on his heel, muttering a stream of curses with a terribly scottish accent under his breath. Frodo clutching on his hand and waving to the other boys goodbye.

“… overgrown, self-important geode-hoarding bastard—”

Thorin bristled.

“Denatured. Guardian.”

“Overgrown cave-dweller—”

“I heard that!”

Bilbo shot back, voice carrying down the marble halls.

Dori exhaled, rubbing his temples.

“This is why I hate working with non-artists.”

Frodo was still clutching his plush dino, holding Bilbo’s hand as he stomped his way towards the exit, the boy had fully expected a scolding. A long, exasperated lecture about how small he was and how dangerous the, very much bigger than him, world was. Instead, the man had simply frowned at him as they passed the gift shop.

The boy hesitated, then, with a quiet voice, he asked,

““Can I get something from the gift shop?”

The man’s frown melted into a merely stressed expression, but his tone was calm.

“Fine.”

Bilbo huffed and puffed as he waited for the boy to choose his new trinket, the cashier, who had already recognised them, blinked at the man while silently handed over another bag. He barely looked at the total as he paid, and Frodo blinked down at his new bookmark.

“…Are you not mad at me?”

Bilbo sighed, rubbing his temple.

“Oh, Frodo,” he muttered. “I should be, but that insufferable twat managed to piss me off further.”

“Will you be alright, Uncle?”

“Hmm?” Bilbo blinked, snapping out of his dark thoughts. He looked at Frodo’s earnest blue eyes and smiled wryly. “Oh, I’ll live. Don’t worry about me.”

“But you seem sad.”

“A bit tired, maybe.” Bilbo sighed. “It was a… trying day.”

“You fought with Kili’s uncle.”

“You could say that, yes.”

“Why?”

Bilbo thought about it for a moment.

“I… think he dislikes me. And I’m afraid I returned the sentiment.”

“Oh. Will you not talk to him anymore?”

Bilbo chuckled, giving his hand a squeeze.

“I doubt that’s possible. We work together, you see. I suppose we’ll have to learn to tolerate each other.”

“Like me and Kíli?”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows.

“Is that how you and Kíli get along?”

“Sometimes we don’t like each other, but he says it’s important that we’re friends. He says I’m one of his best friends.”

Bilbo smiled.

“Well, that sounds like a good start to me. Maybe Doctor Durin and I can learn to be… civil.”

They walked in silence towards the car, the sky turning from orange to purple. Frodo’s little hand was warm on his own, and Bilbo felt a sense of peace settle over him, he wasn’t a bad guardian was he?

When they reached home, after more minutes any could handle the bustling city, his parents house loomed into view, too big for two people. Bilbo stormed into the flat, his coat barely making it onto the hook before he stomped into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves with more force than necessary. The other doctor’s words looming on his ears, ringing loudly and infuriatingly.

Frodo, used to his uncle’s dramatic bouts of anger, silently on the counter and sat at the kitchen table, eager to explore his new trinkets, the adult watched as the boy examined his bookmark, tracing the intricate design with his finger he placed his stuffed triceratops sitting beside him on the counter as he sat to watch Bilbo cook.

The kitchen was small but comfortable, with warm yellow lighting, a cluttered spice rack, and a collection of old copper pots that he had inherited from his mother. The cabinets were painted a dark forest green and the whole room permanently smelled of thyme and roasted garlic, but tonight, there was a distinct undertone of seething rage in the air.

He aggressively chopped onions, muttering under his breath.

“Insufferable, self-important, rock-hoarding arse.” Chop.

“Thinks he’s so bloody impressive—” Chop chop.

“Doctor of Geology, like that even means anything, I bet he doesn’t even know Proper English—” Chop chop chop.

Frodo, watching with wide eyes, slowly pushed the salt shaker further out of reach, just in case his uncle decided to start throwing things. Bilbo tossed the onions into a sizzling pan, grabbing the wooden spoon like a weapon.

The argument with Thorin replayed in his head—the arrogance, the condescending tone, the sheer audacity of the man— Shiny little rocks. He scowled at the pan, stirring furiously.

His hand tightened around the spoon.

“Glorified rock collector,” he muttered.

Frodo, in an attempt to preserve peace, cleared his throat.

“So… what are we having for dinner?”

Bilbo blinked, momentarily snapped out of his wrathful trance.

“… Shepherd’s pie.”

Frodo brightened up instantly.

“Oh! With cheese on top?”

He sighed, softening at the boy’s smile.

“Yes, with cheese on top.”

The kid grinned and settled back in his chair, content that his uncle had redirected his rage into cooking instead of writing anguish poetry.

He busied himself making dinner, the familiar routine a comfort. As he cooked, he thought about Thorin Durin. The man was infuriating, arrogant, utterly infuriating. But… there was something about him.

Yet his stupid heart dared skip a beat, even when he was angry.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He had enough on his plate without getting involved with a grumpy bag of rocks.

That night, Bilbo lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the moonlight casting long shadows across the room, he could not sleep. He never dared move to the master suite, but still his room was large, with a door connecting to his office and a spare bathroom, he watched the wallpaper shift under the fleeting silver light pouring from the window. The fight kept replaying in his mind, over and over again, like some maddening medieval epic, except instead of noble warriors and grand battles, it was just him and that insufferable, smug geologist.

Bilbo rolled onto his side, then onto his back again, then onto his stomach, groaning into his pillow.

He hated to admit it, but Thorin Durin had gotten to him, he was insecure enough as it was, and someone pointing out he was a terrible guardian was too much for his little dramatic head. The way he had stood there, arms crossed, blue eyes dark with irritation, that rich, deep voice practically dripping with condescension, Bilbo groaned louder. He buried his face into his pillow and tried very hard to think about literally anything else.

It did not work.

The next day, Bilbo arrived at the museum with guts churning, he found Dori waiting for him right in front of the department's door, looking even more stressed than usual.

“Baggins,” he said, his voice tight. “We need to talk.”

Bilbo swallowed, his heart sinking.

“About yesterday?”

Dori nodded grimly.

“Among other things. Come with me.”

Dori led Bilbo into his small, meticulously organized office. The room was bright and airy, its walls lined with shelves that held neatly arranged papers and folders. After closing the door, he turned to face the auburn haired man, his expression serious.

“Look, Baggins,” he began, “I know things got a bit… heated yesterday.”

“Heated?” Bilbo repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s one word for it.”

Dori sighed.

“Alright, alright. It was a disaster. But I need you to understand something. Thorin… he’s… complicated.”

“Complicated?” Bilbo scoffed. “He’s arrogant, rude, and completely insufferable.”

The other winced.

“Yes, well… all of that too. But he’s also… very important to the museum. He’s passionate about his work, and he’s incredibly good at what he does. We can’t afford to lose him.”

“And what about me?” Bilbo asked. “Am I not important to the museum?”

“Of course you are,” Dori said quickly. “You’re a brilliant translator, and your work is invaluable. But…Thorin’s family… They are very good contributors, we cannot lose their sponsorship.”

Bilbo crossed his arms, his jaw tightening.

“So what are you saying? Because he is rich I should just… back down? Let him walk all over me?”

“No, no, of course not,” Dori said hastily. “I just… I need you to try to get along. For the sake of the museum. For the sake of everyone.”

Bilbo sighed, he knew Dori was right, he didn’t want to cause trouble, he just wanted to do his job, and take care of Frodo.

"Alright, Dori," Bilbo said, "I'll try. But I'm not making any promises."

Dori smiled, a relieved expression on his face.

"That's all I ask, Bilbo. That's all I ask."

Weeks passed and Bilbo, very maturely, successfully avoided Thorin. He was not about to let himself be dragged into another ridiculous argument with the man, to spend more sleepless nights thinking about veiled and meaningless offenses shred his way. His hiding and dodging technique worked well, until, well, it didn't. It was a quiet afternoon when Bilbo entered the break room, looking forward to his usual questionable coffee and to stretch his sore hands. The museum was buzzing with tourists, Gandalf had asked him to stay by the manuscripts on the exhibit, for the man responsible for the exhibition had an appointment that afternoon, he mourned on his coffee. He needed to gather his wits before he was forced to explain, for the hundredth time, that no, medieval manuscripts did not contain secret treasure maps, or satanic messages, or evidence that the earth is flat.

He sipped his sugarless black coffee, enjoying the aluminum aftertaste, when the man made his way inside. His sleeves were rolled up, and god bless his eyes, his arms were thick as tomes, obviously he was looking as annoyingly handsome as ever.

Bilbo hesitated, he could leave, he should leave, he already had his coffee in hands and the couch was not even that comfortable.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and did something stupid. Thorin glanced at him, raising a dark eyebrow as he began pouring himself coffee as well.

Bilbo cleared his throat.

“I—” He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to be the mature one. “I wanted to apologise for our argument.”

Thorin started sweetening his drink, the other man could not avoid stare at the very American way sugar infinitely poured on his drink.

Bilbo waited. A smirk, a very slight, very infuriating smirk.

“Apologising, are we?” Thorin said, voice infuriatingly deep and slow, as if he were savouring the moment, the smaller man’s eye twitched.

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

The geologist tilted his head, as if considering it.

“Hm,” he hummed, taking another obnoxiously slow sip of coffee. “That’s quite noble of you, Baggins.”

Bilbo crossed his arms.

“Well, I—”

“But then again,” Thorin cut him off, his smirk widening, “I suppose you do spend all day rewriting history. Makes sense you’d want to rewrite your past behaviour too.”

Bilbo blinked, his entire being froze as a cold rush of anger travelled through his spine, Thorin raised an eyebrow, smug and insufferable.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, nothing,” Thorin said, far too casually, setting his mug down. “It’s just—translation work, isn’t it? Taking someone else’s words and changing them into what you think they meant.”

His jaw dropped and his anger flared hot instantly.

“That is—!” He stepped forward, incredulous. “That is the single most—!”

The raven haired man leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest, watching the philologist unravel with thinly veiled amusement.

“You’re absolutely insufferable!” Bilbo snapped.

“So I’ve been told.”

Bilbo huffed, turning towards the door.

“Why do I even bother?” he muttered, gripping his mug.

“Oh, don’t stop now, Baggins,” Thorin drawled, smugness radiating off him in waves. “Tell me again how dusting off shiny little rocks isn’t real work.”

Bilbo slammed his mug onto the counter.

“Listen here, you overgrown lump of coal—”

The fight escalated instantly, within minutes, they were full-blown arguing again, their voices echoing in the small break room.

“—just because you stand in a cave all day glaring at pebbles doesn’t mean you’re the pinnacle of academia—”

“—if I wanted lectures on language, I’d speak to someone who actually studies useful texts—”

“—oh, because rocks are mighty useful—”

“—I work with geological time, Baggins, not dusty footnotes—”

Bilbo gasped dramatically.

“Take that back!”

“I will not.”

They were so engrossed in their bickering that neither of them noticed Gandalf standing in the doorway, coffee already in hand, watching them with mild amusement, after realizing they would not notice him, or stop, the old professor cleared his throat.

They both snapped their heads towards him, mid-argument, Gandalf simply sipped his coffee, unimpressed.

“I see the two of you have yet to settle your differences.” Bilbo turned bright red, Thorin looked away, scowling, the old man chuckled, shaking his head as he walked away. “Absolute children, the both of you.”

They glared at each other.

“…This is your fault,” Bilbo muttered.

Thorin smirked.

“If that helps you sleep at night, Doctor Baggins.”

The Baggins Estate was typically a peaceful place, with the rare exceptions of Bilbo’s temper at times flaring a bit too dramatically and Frodo’s occasional meltdowns. But one night specifically, weeks after the man’s last tetrical meeting with the geologist, there were two additional occupants, and the house was decidedly less peaceful. The man had picked up Kíli and Ori at school with Frodo, both boys bright-eyed and full of energy, their bags slung over their shoulders like they were about to embark on a great adventure. The first thing they did was scatter chaos throughout the house, toys all over the living room, board game pieces spread through the carpet, flour on the tv screen, (Bilbo could not find out where it had come from). And Frodo, typically a worryingly quiet, well-behaved child, found himself swept up in the whirlwind of Kíli’s endless bouncing enthusiasm and Ori’s uncontainable curiosity.

Within a couple hours, they had built a blanket fort in the living room, started an arts and crafts project on the coffee table (Ori declared it "historically inspired," but Bilbo strongly suspected it was just an excuse to use glitter). Spent half an hour debating whether to watch a film about knights or a documentary about Vikings (they settled on both), and raided Bilbo’s kitchen for snacks, several times The adult watched in horror as they tore through two batches of biscuits like a pack of starved wolves, he was frightened he could be the next item on the menu.

“Right,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “I’ll make more food.”

The evening was full of laughter, movie debates, and wild storytelling, Kíli was absolutely convinced he had been a pirate in a past life, and Ori tried to prove otherwise with a very serious argument about reincarnation, Bilbo didn’t know a thing about reincarnation, ‘just what has that kid been reading?’

Thankfully by the time midnight rolled around, the boys had managed to exhaust themselves, sprawled out in their makeshift fort, whispering about dragons, knights, and adventures until their voices faded into quiet snores. Bilbo, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, smiled softly, maybe he was not such a shitty guardian as his rival had said. Despite the absolute disaster zone that was now his living room, he supposed the damage wasn't what he expected.

The following morning, Bilbo was in the garden, elbow-deep in soil, tending to his late-father’s beloved tomato plants and his late-mothers roses, the sun was gentle, the air fresh, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, the house was silent—the boys still sleeping off their sugar-fuelled adventures.

It was blissful, until he heard a knock on the gate. Bilbo shut his eyes and hoped with all his might that his cousin Lobelia wasn’t the one festering his very perfect morning. He tipped his sun hat back, the large brim revealing his red cheeks and bright brown eyes, his eyes met stormy blue ones, Thorin stood there, looking as annoyingly composed as ever, arms crossed.

The owner of the house knew judgement when he spotted, as blue eyes scanned his garden with thinly veiled amusement.

“Baggins,” he greeted.

The other sighed.

“Durin.”

“I’m here to collect my nephew,” The tall man said, stepping through the gate.

“He’s still asleep.”

Thorin’s brow raised.

“Still?”

Bilbo used the irrigator to wet his hands and wiped them on a rag, glancing towards the house.

“They were up half the night discussing historical inaccuracies in pirate films.”

Thorin made a gruff noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh Bilbo, still crouched by his tomato plants, carefully adjusted a vine, ignoring the way the geologist was watching him. The moment stretched, too quiet, until—

“You garden,” He noted, in that condescending, slightly teasing tone that made Bilbo’s temper flare instantly.

Bilbo shot him a look.

“Obviously.”

Thorin smirked, glancing down at the carefully arranged rows of tomatoes, herbs, and flowers.

“Didn’t take you for the type to get your hands dirty, Baggins.”

Bilbo’s eye twitched.

“Oh, and what type do you take me for, exactly?”

The geologist tilted his head, as if thinking.

“The kind who sits indoors all day, surrounded by books and avoiding any manual labour.”

Bilbo scoffed loudly, grabbing his watering can.

“Just because I work with words instead of stones, doesn’t mean I’m incapable of doing anything else.”

Thorin hummed, clearly unconvinced as he opened the gate and let himself in.

“I’ve seen your desk, Baggins. It looks like a printer exploded on it.”

The auburn haired man, offended beyond measure, pointed the watering can very aggressively at him.

“And I’ve seen your office, Durin. A glorified cave full of rocks that all look exactly the same.”

The raven haired man narrowed his eyes.

“You did not just insult my collection again.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes right back.

“You did not just insult my desk.”

Thorin crossed his arms.

“Messy.”

He huffed, indignant.

“Boring.”

The other took a slow step forward, his feet crunching on the rock path, looking down at Bilbo with that infuriating smirk.

“Your tomatoes are crooked,” he said.

The owner of the house gasped audibly, Thorin barely had time to react before he threw a handful of soil directly at his chest. The geologist staggered back, spluttering, brushing dirt off his shirt as he glared at him.

“Did you just—”

“Yes, I did,” Bilbo seeming as incredulous as the other, but already reaching for another handful of dirt. “You like dirt so much, please have some, there's plenty for many geologist’s here.”

He lunged forward, grabbing the smaller man’s wrist before he could launch another attack, for a moment, they were far too close, eyes locked, breathing hard. The sounds of the world faded—the rustling leaves, the distant hum of a car passing, the bark of some neighbour’s dog— Bilbo could feel the warmth of Thorin’s skin, the way his fingers curled tightly around his wrist.

His cheeks burned, Thorin’s smirk flickered, his grip loosening slightly.

“Uncle Thorin!”

Kíli barrelled out of the house, Ori and Frodo close behind, all three boys blinking at the scene before them.

Bilbo and Thorin immediately separated, looking highly suspicious, their cheeks flaring red.

Kíli’s eyes darted between them.

“…Were you two fighting again?”

“No,” Bilbo and Thorin said at the same time.

Frodo squinted at them.

“Uncle, you have dirt on your face.”

Thorin, still brushing soil off his shirt, muttered,

“Baggins threw it at me.”

Bilbo scoffed dramatically.

“He’s lying. He tried to eat the dirt, and I had to stop him!”

The boys gasped in horror.

“I knew Uncle ate dirt!” Kíli all but shouted, turning to the others. “Fíli told me and I didn’t believe him!”

Frodo made gagging noises. Ori, looking genuinely betrayed, gasped.

“Did you really eat dirt?” Ori’s eyes rounded as he looked up at Thorin.

The geologist’s face bloomed into a mischievous smirk.

“Yes,” he said wryly. “And I’ll make you all eat dirt too.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, dusting soil from his sleeves.

“Oh, please. Not even if you force it down my throat.”

Kíli gasped, delighted.

“IS THAT A CHALLENGE?”

Thorin groaned.

“Absolutely not.”

But Kíli had already grabbed Ori’s hand, yelling,

“RUN, BILBO, RUN!” before sprinting across the garden.

Frodo sighed, turning to his uncle.

“Are you actually going to run?”

Bilbo, dusting soil off his hands, only smirked.

The young boy shook his head, muttering something about ridiculous adults before jogging after his friends.

Thorin, watching the chaos unfold, huffed a quiet laugh.

“…Your tomatoes are still crooked,” he muttered.

Bilbo gasped dramatically, placing both hands on Thorin’s chest and giving him a shove.

“Get out of my garden.”

Thorin barely staggered back, his smirk widening.

“Oh? Resorting to violence, Doctor Baggins?” he drawled.

“I should, after what you just said about my tomatoes,” Bilbo huffed, hands firmly on his hips. “That was a low blow.”

Thorin, still smirking, reached down and scooped up a handful of earth, letting it crumble through his fingers as he raised an eyebrow.

The lyricist eyed the handful of soil.

“Don’t you dare.”

The geologist’s expression shifted dangerously.

“Baggins,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief, “what if I told you this soil is full of important minerals?”

The smaller stepped back cautiously.

“I don’t care about your precious minerals, Doctor Durin, put it down.”

Yet he took another calculated step forward, as Bilbo took another step back. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.

“Oh,” he murmured. “You do care. You’re afraid.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes.

“I am not afraid of dirt,” he said through gritted teeth.

The other tilted his head, tossing the earth lightly between his palms.

“Then why are you backing away?”

His response was scowled.

“You are insufferable.”

“And you,” Thorin said calmly, “are about to get—”

Bilbo moved first.

With lightning speed, he lunged forward, grabbing the geologist’s wrist in an attempt to stop him, but the man was ready, they grappled for the upper hand, stumbling backwards. With a surprised yelp, Bilbo lost his balance, grabbing onto Thorin’s shirt for support. And caught off guard, he lost his footing entirely. There was a brief moment of weightlessness, and then they crashed down into the soil, tangling together in an undignified heap.

Bilbo, winded, found himself flat on his back, Thorin’s solid weight half-pressed against him, one arm trapped beneath the other man’s shoulder. There was a long, stunned silence. Bilbo blinked up at the bright blue sky, registering the warmth of Thorin’s body against his own, the faint minerally scent mixed with pine that always seemed to linger on him.

He swallowed. Very slowly, he turned his head upward— Only to find Thorin already looking at him.

Their faces were far too close, Bilbo felt his breath hitch, his heartbeat stumbling awkwardly over itself, Thorin’s smirk had disappeared. His gaze had shifted from the amused misdemeanor to a wide-eyed surprise, as if was now wondering what he had gotten himself into.

Bilbo’s cheeks burned, Thorin’s hand shifted, he felt the grainy texture and reminded himself that it was still full of soil, he smirked again. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his dirt-covered fingers and pressed them lightly against Bilbo’s cheek, smearing soil across his face.

The man pressed under him let out an indignant splutter.

“You absolute—!”

But before he could retaliate, the sound of shrieking laughter filled the air.

“I KNEW IT!” Kíli’s voice rang out. “THEY WERE WRESTLING!”

Bilbo and Thorin both snapped their heads toward the house—

Where all three boys were standing by the back door, giggling like mad, Ori, clutching his dragon notebook, looking ready to start narrating the fight.

“Shh!” Frodo hissed, elbowing Kíli. “Don’t ruin it, I want to see who wins!”

Bilbo let out a deep, suffering sigh, rubbing his dirt-covered forehead, Thorin, still half on top of him, chuckled lowly.

“You were saying?” he murmured.

He glared up at him.

“You are never allowed near my garden again.”

The other smirked.

“We’ll see about that, Master Baggins.”