In Which Bilbo Discovers That He’s Not As Unusual A Hobbit As He Thought
Title: In Which Bilbo Discovers That He’s Not As Unusual A Hobbit As He Thought
Series: This takes place in hobbitdragon’s Lessons In Dwarven Culture ‘verse. Posted at hobbitdragon’s encouragement.
Author: ladygray99
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Bofur/Bilbo Baggins/Ori
Word count: 1908
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Summary: Bilbo stops for the night at the Prancing Pony and for the first time in a year he encounters other hobbits and starts to see them with new eyes.
Notes: This is fanfic for fanfic. Normally that’s something I wouldn’t write but hobbitdragon’s story kept giving me bunnies and right now I’ll take any writing I do as a win. If you’re not reading story you’re missing out on one of the more epic Hobbit fics ever (and this might not make as much sense). Also written because you can not tell me that a place called the Prancing Pony isn't a pickup joint.
Beta: none
In Which Bilbo Discovers That He’s Not As Unusual A Hobbit As He Thought
Bilbo wanted to push on. Bree was so close to Hobbiton (relatively speaking) and so close to Bag-End. He could almost feel the brass knob of his front door under his hand. Never mind that the rain was coming down in buckets and the light was fading. He knew there was a time when he would have wept for joy at the idea of staying at the Prancing Pony, as opposed to a night in the cold and wet, but that part of him was long gone. Now it took Ori playing up a slight cough to get him through the front door of the inn.
The inn was busy due to the weather but they were informed that there was a hobbit/dwarf sized room available if they didn’t mind doubling up. Bofur answered for them quickly, paid to have the ponies stabled, the bags sent up to the room, then asked about supper. They were shown to a common room with long low tables, the smell of stew and ale coming from a kitchen, and to Bilbo’s surprise there were hobbits. At least a dozen of them sitting in groups drinking, eating, chatting.
Bilbo froze, of course there were hobbits. There were always hobbits in Bree. They were hardly a stone throw away from the Shire. A couple looked his way tilting their heads slightly at him. Bilbo looked down at himself. The clothes he’d left Bag End in were long gone in shreds across Middle Earth. He now wore wools, leathers, and furs, meant for hard traveling. He had a sword strapped to hip that he put there every morning without thought. Ori had started putting little braids into his hair when it began to get too long and fall into his eyes. And while he knew he’d never have scars close to what Dwalin or Thorin or most of company possessed, he did now wear several on his skin, almost certainly more than any other hobbit in the room. Or many of them combined.
He looked more like a beardless dwarf, leaving his still bare feet to prove that he was a hobbit, if not a very good one anymore. Bofur dragged them over to a table where there were still a few seats free. “I’ll go get us some supper.”
Bilbo just nodded and kept looking over his shoulder at the other hobbits in the room. They glanced back at him. They all seemed reasonably young and well into their cups. Bofur returned with three bowls of thick stew and a serving girl with three pints of ale. Bilbo might once have scoffed at the idea of a hobbit with a full pint mug but that was before he began associating in dwarves. While he’d never have the tolerance of someone like Nori or Dwalin he was sure these days he could hold more than the average hobbit. He looked over his shoulder again and a few of hobbits looked back. A couple smiled.
Bilbo dug into the stew and moaned slightly. While they were certainly better provisioned for their way back there was still something to be said for quality inn food with Shire raised beef over trail rations and game meat.
He had just about scrapped his bowl clean when another group of dwarfs entered still shaking the water from their beards.
Bofur looked over. “That’s Grimla.” He pointed to the tallest with a vastly complicated beard. “She runs caravans between here and the Iron Hills. Mind if I go talk with her? Get the lay of the land?”
“Good idea.”
“Actually,” Ori gave a small cough. “I’m going to go check on our bags and change into something a little dryer.”
Bilbo realized that, despite their oilcloth travel cloaks, Ori’s knits were still a little damp. He felt guilty for not sending Ori up to change immediately. “You should probably crawl right into bed so you don’t get properly sick. Dori would never forgive me.” Ori rolled his eyes but gave Bilbo’s hand a little squeeze. “I’ll come up with Bofur in a bit.”
Ori gave his hand another squeeze and headed to the stairs leaving Bilbo to finish his pint and think. Suddenly a hobbit sat down next to him.
“This seat taken?”
“No.” Bilbo stuttered out with a bit of surprise.
The hobbit held out his hand. “Furgo Proudfood.”
“Bilbo Baggins.” He looked Furgo over. He was young, probably hardly in his 30’s, with reddish curls, and large strong hands.
“Bilbo Baggins,” Furgo repeated with a grin. “I haven’t seen you here before. Come to Bree often?”
“No, just passing through.”
“Coming or going?”
Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. A bit of both really. “Coming. Coming home. I’m afraid I ran off on a bit of an adventure.”
Furgo glanced over to where Bofur was chatting with Grimla “With Dwarves?”
Bilbo sighed. “With Dwarves.”
Furgo grinned. “Sounds exciting. Closest thing I get to adventuring is driving my father’s sheep up here to Bree. It’s not much but at least I get to spend a few days here.” He looked down at Bilbo’s mug. “You’re almost dry.” He waved at the serving girl.
“I’m fine…”
“No. I insist. A little welcome back. And I’d love to hear about a bit of adventuring. All the exciting things past Bree.”
Furgo seemed honestly interested. Bilbo supposed he wasn’t the only hobbit to have a bit of wanderlust thought he was sure he was the only one insane enough to run out his front door chasing a bloody dragon. “Only if you tell me some boring Shire gossip and scandal first. I’ve been gone more than a year and I oddly miss it.”
Two more mugs of ale landed in front of them. “That I can certainly do.” Furgo lifted his mug. Bilbo joining him, before the younger hobbit launched into the story of a cousin who’d been caught between the affection of two lasses, who had been the best of friends. And after choosing one the other had retaliated by setting a high tea every week, finer than anything that part of the Shire had seen in an age. And making it a point to invite everyone except her former best friend.
Bilbo laughed having nearly forgotten there was such a thing as a passive aggressive scone. His mother’s very best, and rather complicated, scone recipe only came out when she was entertaining people she didn’t particularly like. Especially Baggins relatives that had objected to her marriage into the family. He tried to picture Thorin laying out a high tea for council members he did not particularly get on with. Or better yet, Thranduil. Bilbo giggled again.
“What’s so funny?” Furgo asked still smiling.
“I’ve just spent the last year with people who have a habit of settling bruised feelings with real bruises, or breaks, or gashes, and I just had a funny image of someone forcing a hobbit high tea on them.”
Furgo leaned in closer resting his chin in one hand. “Sounds like an exciting year. Now, tell me about your grand adventure.” Furgo’s voice began to go oddly low. Suddenly Furgo was jerked back and Bofur was hulling him off the bench.
“This seat is taken lad.”
“Bofur!”
“Very taken.”
Furgo nodded and scurried back to the other hobbits.
“What was that about!” Bilbo snapped.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Bofur took the vacated bit of bench. “We you planning on tupping that lad?”
“Of course not! We were talking.”
“You might have been talking but he was making plans to get a couple of more ales into you before dragging you off to his bed.”
“Don’t be absurd. He’s a hobbit.”
“So are you.” Bilbo froze. Yes. Yes he was a hobbit. A male hobbit who’d let eight strange male dwarfs take him in just about every possible way without complaint. But he was a strange hobbit. He’d gone off on an adventure that would have scandalized even the wildest of his Took ancestors. He was about as far from the average hobbit as you could get. Bilbo looked over his shoulder to the tables where the hobbits, all young, all male, were gathered. “Nearly every one of those lads have been eyeing up your fine form since you walked in. I hate to tell you but I don’t think you’re as unusual a hobbit as you like to believe you are.”
Bilbo watched as two of the lads chatted pleasantly while under the table their toes just reached out brushed against each other. Bilbo felt his face flush. He had memories of sitting by the fire as a child and watching as his father’s foot crept slowly across the rug until it brushed against his mother’s. She would pretend like she didn’t notice but a smile would pull at her lips and the corner of her eyes. Two other hobbits finished their ales and got up heading towards the stairs together. They could just simply be doubling up in a room the way people did at inns sometimes but there was something about the way they held themselves that told Bilbo there was something more going on.
Bilbo looked away and quickly finished his own ale.
“I know…” Bofur’s voice became soft. “I know you’ve told Ori that you won’t take anyone else to your bed but… You’ve never had one of your own kind. Maybe you should…”
Bilbo would never do that to Ori but he did look over at the hobbits and considered them before giving a little snort. He just knew it would be strange bedding someone with hair on his legs but not his chest. And they would certainly be expecting to kiss. Even if Ori was fine with it how would he explain to a hobbit that it no longer felt right kissing anyone he wasn’t considering getting married to. “I think you’ve ruined me for my own kind. The hair’s on the wrong end from what I’m used to. I’d never be sure which way was up.”
“And you wouldn’t want to bugger some strange, random, hobbit you met at an inn anyhow.”
“I let eight strange, random, dwarves, bugger me.” Bilbo muttered half to himself.
Bofur grinned. “And we thank you for that. All eight…” Bofur frowned then looked up at the ceiling. His brows pulled together and he mumbled to himself. “Who’s the eighth?” He asked after a minute.
Bilbo froze. “Who do you mean?”
“You said eight of us. Myself, Ori, Nori, Dwalin, Fili, Kili, Oin. That’s seven.”
“I must have miscounted.” Bilbo muttered quickly and hoped his face wasn’t turning colors. “There were a lot of you.”
“You wouldn’t have laid with Dori, or Gloin.” Bofur continued. “Balin and Bifur are out. That’s leave Bombur and Thori…”
“Seven.” Bilbo repeated firmly. “You’re absolutely right. I should have said seven. Just over half the company.”
A grin stretched across Bofur’s face. “You gave Thorin the Loveless a tumble,” he quietly crowed. “Nori will be jealous as anything.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bilbo said primly. “And even if I did it is not polite to talk about actions that may or may not have been shared in private and confidence.”
Bofur nodded trying and failing to look serious. “Of course. You must have miscounted. Now let’s get you up to bed and find out exactly what you might have done to impress a king.”
Series: This takes place in hobbitdragon’s Lessons In Dwarven Culture ‘verse. Posted at hobbitdragon’s encouragement.
Author: ladygray99
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Bofur/Bilbo Baggins/Ori
Word count: 1908
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Summary: Bilbo stops for the night at the Prancing Pony and for the first time in a year he encounters other hobbits and starts to see them with new eyes.
Notes: This is fanfic for fanfic. Normally that’s something I wouldn’t write but hobbitdragon’s story kept giving me bunnies and right now I’ll take any writing I do as a win. If you’re not reading story you’re missing out on one of the more epic Hobbit fics ever (and this might not make as much sense). Also written because you can not tell me that a place called the Prancing Pony isn't a pickup joint.
Beta: none
In Which Bilbo Discovers That He’s Not As Unusual A Hobbit As He Thought
Bilbo wanted to push on. Bree was so close to Hobbiton (relatively speaking) and so close to Bag-End. He could almost feel the brass knob of his front door under his hand. Never mind that the rain was coming down in buckets and the light was fading. He knew there was a time when he would have wept for joy at the idea of staying at the Prancing Pony, as opposed to a night in the cold and wet, but that part of him was long gone. Now it took Ori playing up a slight cough to get him through the front door of the inn.
The inn was busy due to the weather but they were informed that there was a hobbit/dwarf sized room available if they didn’t mind doubling up. Bofur answered for them quickly, paid to have the ponies stabled, the bags sent up to the room, then asked about supper. They were shown to a common room with long low tables, the smell of stew and ale coming from a kitchen, and to Bilbo’s surprise there were hobbits. At least a dozen of them sitting in groups drinking, eating, chatting.
Bilbo froze, of course there were hobbits. There were always hobbits in Bree. They were hardly a stone throw away from the Shire. A couple looked his way tilting their heads slightly at him. Bilbo looked down at himself. The clothes he’d left Bag End in were long gone in shreds across Middle Earth. He now wore wools, leathers, and furs, meant for hard traveling. He had a sword strapped to hip that he put there every morning without thought. Ori had started putting little braids into his hair when it began to get too long and fall into his eyes. And while he knew he’d never have scars close to what Dwalin or Thorin or most of company possessed, he did now wear several on his skin, almost certainly more than any other hobbit in the room. Or many of them combined.
He looked more like a beardless dwarf, leaving his still bare feet to prove that he was a hobbit, if not a very good one anymore. Bofur dragged them over to a table where there were still a few seats free. “I’ll go get us some supper.”
Bilbo just nodded and kept looking over his shoulder at the other hobbits in the room. They glanced back at him. They all seemed reasonably young and well into their cups. Bofur returned with three bowls of thick stew and a serving girl with three pints of ale. Bilbo might once have scoffed at the idea of a hobbit with a full pint mug but that was before he began associating in dwarves. While he’d never have the tolerance of someone like Nori or Dwalin he was sure these days he could hold more than the average hobbit. He looked over his shoulder again and a few of hobbits looked back. A couple smiled.
Bilbo dug into the stew and moaned slightly. While they were certainly better provisioned for their way back there was still something to be said for quality inn food with Shire raised beef over trail rations and game meat.
He had just about scrapped his bowl clean when another group of dwarfs entered still shaking the water from their beards.
Bofur looked over. “That’s Grimla.” He pointed to the tallest with a vastly complicated beard. “She runs caravans between here and the Iron Hills. Mind if I go talk with her? Get the lay of the land?”
“Good idea.”
“Actually,” Ori gave a small cough. “I’m going to go check on our bags and change into something a little dryer.”
Bilbo realized that, despite their oilcloth travel cloaks, Ori’s knits were still a little damp. He felt guilty for not sending Ori up to change immediately. “You should probably crawl right into bed so you don’t get properly sick. Dori would never forgive me.” Ori rolled his eyes but gave Bilbo’s hand a little squeeze. “I’ll come up with Bofur in a bit.”
Ori gave his hand another squeeze and headed to the stairs leaving Bilbo to finish his pint and think. Suddenly a hobbit sat down next to him.
“This seat taken?”
“No.” Bilbo stuttered out with a bit of surprise.
The hobbit held out his hand. “Furgo Proudfood.”
“Bilbo Baggins.” He looked Furgo over. He was young, probably hardly in his 30’s, with reddish curls, and large strong hands.
“Bilbo Baggins,” Furgo repeated with a grin. “I haven’t seen you here before. Come to Bree often?”
“No, just passing through.”
“Coming or going?”
Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. A bit of both really. “Coming. Coming home. I’m afraid I ran off on a bit of an adventure.”
Furgo glanced over to where Bofur was chatting with Grimla “With Dwarves?”
Bilbo sighed. “With Dwarves.”
Furgo grinned. “Sounds exciting. Closest thing I get to adventuring is driving my father’s sheep up here to Bree. It’s not much but at least I get to spend a few days here.” He looked down at Bilbo’s mug. “You’re almost dry.” He waved at the serving girl.
“I’m fine…”
“No. I insist. A little welcome back. And I’d love to hear about a bit of adventuring. All the exciting things past Bree.”
Furgo seemed honestly interested. Bilbo supposed he wasn’t the only hobbit to have a bit of wanderlust thought he was sure he was the only one insane enough to run out his front door chasing a bloody dragon. “Only if you tell me some boring Shire gossip and scandal first. I’ve been gone more than a year and I oddly miss it.”
Two more mugs of ale landed in front of them. “That I can certainly do.” Furgo lifted his mug. Bilbo joining him, before the younger hobbit launched into the story of a cousin who’d been caught between the affection of two lasses, who had been the best of friends. And after choosing one the other had retaliated by setting a high tea every week, finer than anything that part of the Shire had seen in an age. And making it a point to invite everyone except her former best friend.
Bilbo laughed having nearly forgotten there was such a thing as a passive aggressive scone. His mother’s very best, and rather complicated, scone recipe only came out when she was entertaining people she didn’t particularly like. Especially Baggins relatives that had objected to her marriage into the family. He tried to picture Thorin laying out a high tea for council members he did not particularly get on with. Or better yet, Thranduil. Bilbo giggled again.
“What’s so funny?” Furgo asked still smiling.
“I’ve just spent the last year with people who have a habit of settling bruised feelings with real bruises, or breaks, or gashes, and I just had a funny image of someone forcing a hobbit high tea on them.”
Furgo leaned in closer resting his chin in one hand. “Sounds like an exciting year. Now, tell me about your grand adventure.” Furgo’s voice began to go oddly low. Suddenly Furgo was jerked back and Bofur was hulling him off the bench.
“This seat is taken lad.”
“Bofur!”
“Very taken.”
Furgo nodded and scurried back to the other hobbits.
“What was that about!” Bilbo snapped.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Bofur took the vacated bit of bench. “We you planning on tupping that lad?”
“Of course not! We were talking.”
“You might have been talking but he was making plans to get a couple of more ales into you before dragging you off to his bed.”
“Don’t be absurd. He’s a hobbit.”
“So are you.” Bilbo froze. Yes. Yes he was a hobbit. A male hobbit who’d let eight strange male dwarfs take him in just about every possible way without complaint. But he was a strange hobbit. He’d gone off on an adventure that would have scandalized even the wildest of his Took ancestors. He was about as far from the average hobbit as you could get. Bilbo looked over his shoulder to the tables where the hobbits, all young, all male, were gathered. “Nearly every one of those lads have been eyeing up your fine form since you walked in. I hate to tell you but I don’t think you’re as unusual a hobbit as you like to believe you are.”
Bilbo watched as two of the lads chatted pleasantly while under the table their toes just reached out brushed against each other. Bilbo felt his face flush. He had memories of sitting by the fire as a child and watching as his father’s foot crept slowly across the rug until it brushed against his mother’s. She would pretend like she didn’t notice but a smile would pull at her lips and the corner of her eyes. Two other hobbits finished their ales and got up heading towards the stairs together. They could just simply be doubling up in a room the way people did at inns sometimes but there was something about the way they held themselves that told Bilbo there was something more going on.
Bilbo looked away and quickly finished his own ale.
“I know…” Bofur’s voice became soft. “I know you’ve told Ori that you won’t take anyone else to your bed but… You’ve never had one of your own kind. Maybe you should…”
Bilbo would never do that to Ori but he did look over at the hobbits and considered them before giving a little snort. He just knew it would be strange bedding someone with hair on his legs but not his chest. And they would certainly be expecting to kiss. Even if Ori was fine with it how would he explain to a hobbit that it no longer felt right kissing anyone he wasn’t considering getting married to. “I think you’ve ruined me for my own kind. The hair’s on the wrong end from what I’m used to. I’d never be sure which way was up.”
“And you wouldn’t want to bugger some strange, random, hobbit you met at an inn anyhow.”
“I let eight strange, random, dwarves, bugger me.” Bilbo muttered half to himself.
Bofur grinned. “And we thank you for that. All eight…” Bofur frowned then looked up at the ceiling. His brows pulled together and he mumbled to himself. “Who’s the eighth?” He asked after a minute.
Bilbo froze. “Who do you mean?”
“You said eight of us. Myself, Ori, Nori, Dwalin, Fili, Kili, Oin. That’s seven.”
“I must have miscounted.” Bilbo muttered quickly and hoped his face wasn’t turning colors. “There were a lot of you.”
“You wouldn’t have laid with Dori, or Gloin.” Bofur continued. “Balin and Bifur are out. That’s leave Bombur and Thori…”
“Seven.” Bilbo repeated firmly. “You’re absolutely right. I should have said seven. Just over half the company.”
A grin stretched across Bofur’s face. “You gave Thorin the Loveless a tumble,” he quietly crowed. “Nori will be jealous as anything.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bilbo said primly. “And even if I did it is not polite to talk about actions that may or may not have been shared in private and confidence.”
Bofur nodded trying and failing to look serious. “Of course. You must have miscounted. Now let’s get you up to bed and find out exactly what you might have done to impress a king.”