Chapter Text
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The first signs of winter graced the shire during mid-autumn. Crisp, amber leaves which once coated trees and hedgerows began to wither, gathering into heaps of leaf litter upon the dirt-and-gravel pavements, much to the delight of the shire's youth. Barefooted children chortled happily; a sound comforting to the ears of passersby, who did not seem to mind the kerfuffle of faunts tumbling into leaves. It was all in good fun, their playing brought back fond memories as the older generation of hobbits reminisced about their younger years.
Beyond the bustle of Hobbiton, Bag-End sat quietly, as it always had done. The hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, was elbow-deep in the earth, uprooting a bunch of carrots.
"Won't be too long now, love."
Bilbo called out then resumed dusting away clinging soil from the home-grown produce, before placing them among the assortment of vegetables within his wicker basket. He muttered under his breath; something regarding how pesky and inconvenient the ache in his lower back ailed him since returning from the expedition to Erebor a year prior.
"Don't rush on my account," Thorin said, as he appeared in the round-shaped doorway, two mugs of steaming tea in each hand. He padded down the steps toward where Bilbo knelt by the vacant vegetable patch. "I brewed you some chamomile tea; it should soothe those nerves of yours before we head to Bywater this afternoon". The dwarf had become acquainted with his lover's anxious mannerisms: his nonsensical rambling, furrowing his brow or biting at his nails. 'It's nice to know him this intimately, flaws and all.' Thorin mused to himself, a thoughtful smile tugging at his lips at the sight of his lover.
"Thank you kindly. Just pop it down for me." Bilbo said, wiping the sweat from beneath the mass of unruly curls covering his brow. The hobbit seated himself, planting his palms behind him and outstretching his legs with a huff. "Produce we do not sell for pennies or trade, I shall cook up into a hearty stew for us to share. Do remind me to pick up a rabbit from the marketplace, dear."
With a nod of acknowledgement, Thorin crouched to place the pair of mugs down. His eyes sat pointedly at the crown of Bilbo's head, and when he did, he saw slivers of white hair sprouting from his roots. He had always admired the lustre and sheen of Bilbo's curls, and now he could only second guess himself when faced with what seemed like a sign of ageing, or whether this white patch had been there all this time. Suddenly, he felt rather unobservant of his lover. So, he intently racked his brain to all the moments in which he might've seen this before, only to be reined back to reality by a hand waving before his eyes. "Are you in there, Thorin?"
"Ah, yes. My apologies, Master Baggins. I lost myself in thought." The two mugs were placed side-by-side; steam curled upward and dissipated into the air around them. Thorin raked his fingers through his hair, his brow creased inward. He still wasn't quite present, his mind wandering back to the contrast of honey-brown curls against streaky, white roots.
"I told you, you can stop with the formalities. I am your lover, not an acquaintance, stranger, or otherwise." His palm rested on the curvature of Thorin's cheek, his thumb smoothing over the bristles of facial hair. "Bilbo, or a name of endearment will do nicely," Bilbo said, not unkindly.
"Old habits die hard... but I will get there eventually," Thorin conceded, and offered an apologetic look in hopes that he had not hurt the hobbit's feelings by calling him such. “This gentle folk lifestyle is surely taking me time to get accustomed to, even if it has been almost a year," he admitted wistfully.
"Oh, Thorin. Nobody is expecting you to abandon what you know and adhere to every detail which is considered proper in the eyes of a hobbit"
"The judgemental stares and comments suggest otherwise" Thorin put, rather bluntly.
With a stifled sigh, Bilbo continued with his speech. "Well, their business is their own, and so is ours. Nevermind them poking their noses in, and never mind the bloody Sackville-Bagginses either. Nothing they say is entirely sensical". Bilbo spat, his tone dripping with a bitterness reserved for said individuals. No one even mentioned his extended family, but Bilbo took any opportunity to complain about them as if a way of blowing out some inner turmoil. His tail beat against the ground, the plume of fur at its tip tossing up the soil with each furious flick.
Thorin waved a dismissive hand through the air, his eyes rolling at the mere mention of the Sackville-Bagginses' family name. "I am not speaking of them, their opinion is quite frankly irrelevant. They'd chastise just about anything, Master- uh, Bilbo. Do not waste your breath on them." A hand carded through his hair, his forehead crinkled, deep lines forming from a lifetime of hardship and emotional turmoil.
Thorin shared a similar disdain for Bilbo's less-than-savoury relatives and certainly did not seek their approval. A dwarf, once king under the mountain, did not need the approval of the Sackville-bagginses, but approval from those who Bilbo had an inkling of respect for was another story entirely. The withdrawn, quiet Bilbo Baggins presumed dead, returning home with bags of riches and a dwarf king in tow wasn't exactly smile-provoking in the eyes of the proper hobbits of the shire.
Word certainly did travel fast, and hobbit folk did not spare the pair from unsolicited opinions, and or comments- speaking of “How queer it is for a hobbit and dwarf to be romantically involved.", or “Is this some jest? My, I thought you were rather… Well, there’s no kind way of putting it- strange, Bilbo, but a dwarf- really? This is odd, even for the likes of yourself” Thorin's eyes darkened at the thought. Even amidst the quiet, rolling hills and lush greenery of the Shire, ridicule and prejudice seemed to follow them. He felt an unease behind the walls of Bag-End, also. The glares, sneers and not-so-subtle remarks from those who did not understand seemed to have etched into the forefront of Thorin's brain, leaving a permanent stain.
Thorin somewhat saw this as a challenge; a chance to prove himself to those who had turned up their noses at the very idea of Bilbo and himself as beaus. Even so, the whole ordeal was discomforting. His confidence in Bilbo's fellow gentle hobbit folk has been withering finely. He understood from a dwarven viewpoint that certain races were conservative in their societal ideals and customs; not budging for those whose behaviour or appearance didn't fit what was deemed appropriate. He did not even feel tolerable to Bilbo's hobbit-kin, and It was eating away at him from the inside.
“Love…” Bilbo cooed softly, noticing the expression of worry etched onto Thorin’s features. His irritation subsided, replaced with a melancholic fondness stirring in his gut. Not even the topic of the Sackville-Bagginses could rile him up for long when Thorin was his company. The journey to Erebor, which seemed like forever ago, had ingrained a web of complex internal worries and anxieties in the dwarf and hobbit.
“It is you and I now, Thorin. You don’t have to face your thoughts alone, and I am sure you would offer the same."
Solace was found in Bilbo’s words. Eyes met, and they shared a warm look, a silent communication between lovers that required no spoken words. "Come," Bilbo beckoned as he finished gathering the gardening equipment and disposing of them in a dedicated sack. “Let us enjoy our tea in peace before we brave the crowds of Bywater” While this was said in jest, there was some truth to it, at least for Bilbo.
Abandoning their post, they settled on the bench facing the rest of Hobbiton. Numb hands nursed the mugs of chamomile tea, lips meeting the brim for an occasional leisurely sip, savouring the floral notes on their tongues. The warm, earthy aroma of the tea mingled with the crisp scent of autumn and was inhaled by cold-kissed noses. The silence was broken only by an odd hum of satisfaction and the gentle twitter of birds in the distance, providing a quiet yet comforting soundtrack to their tea drinking. Their eyes caught a glimpse of a house sparrow, which flew above their heads and landed on fencing. The feathered creature folded in its wings, its feet curved for grip. Little moments in time that make the world go around. Side by side, Bilbo and Thorin basked in the final morning sun rays, like a pair of old tabby cats, soaking up the warmth emanating from a pavement. For a moment, Thorin seldom forgot the pressure of fitting into gentle-hobbit society and those wispy, white strands of hair belonging to his hobbit.