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It was raining in The Shire, for what happened to be the third time that week. It was gentle, as all things tended to be across the little patch of land, yet steady and consistent, helping to water the already plentiful grass and the hard-worked soil, assisting in ensuring there would be another bountiful harvest come Autumn.
It was much unlike the cold grim rain he was used to seeing lingering over the Blue Mountains, nor the harsh and unforgiving calamity of thunderstorms that rolled over Erebor amidst the sluggish months of summertime. No, instead it was soft and gentle, and the type of weather that would have any other inhabitant of The Shire curling up comfortably in their favorite armchair with a cup of tea and their favorite book - perhaps a few biscuits to snack on as well.
Regrettably, Thorin was doing none of these things.
No, instead he had thought to perhaps finally conquer what he believed to be one of his worst enemies - scone batter. Only, it had gone wretchedly thus far, at first the batter was much too sticky, and then after another smidge of flour, it had gone stiff and immovable, which led Thorin to believe perhaps a touch of water would do the trick, only for it to seemingly melt apart at the seams into a gooey disaster that seemed impossible to fix.
Which happened to be the reason he now stood near the counter with his sleeves rolled up and his forearms caked entirely in flour, with a frown so scathing in appearance it could've curdled milk itself - and it was directed at the mixing bowl itself as if it had deeply insulted his family lineage.
Bilbo quietly observed him from where he leaned against the doorway, doing his utmost best to smother the amused smirk he wore before he decided to make his presence known to the other. "You know, I'm almost certain that glaring at the batter won't magically turn it into a scone."
"This is not a scone," Thorin dismissed with a growl. "This is an abomination that refuses to cooperate with me - it's an act of rebellion to the highest degree."
Bilbo couldn't help the snort that he let slip, pushing himself off the wooden frame from where he had propped his hip. "Ah, yes, I do recall reading something similar to that once, it was riveting. Oh, just what was it called again? Ah, yes, the battle of the butter slices, that was it."
Thorin huffed out a laugh, short and abrupt as if it were begrudgingly punched from his gut, and Bilbo's smile widened at the very sound of it - he would gladly take that victory, no matter the form in which it came.
The hobbit approached the dwarf suddenly and all at once, choosing to paste himself along his back and wrapping his arms tightly around his middle (which had thickened considerably over the last few months, much to Bilbo's everlasting delight). Thorin leaned back into his embrace, deflating against Bilbo with a soft exhale.
The sound of rain tapping against the window filled the space, almost as if it were a friend asking to be let in - companionable and comforting at once,
"You're entrenched in flour," Bilbo told him after a few moments of silence.
"And now, so are you," Thorin responded with an amused smile, covering one of Bilbo's hands with one of his own and marveling to himself, even years later, at how perfectly the two of them tended to slot together.
"Yes, it does seem that I am. What a predicament we've both gotten ourselves into, it seems we're both in dire need of a wash - perhaps you can even join me if you choose to be on your best behavior and agree to no splashing." Bilbo said with a pointed look once Thorin had twisted himself around in his arms to face him properly.
"I can make no such promises, unfortunately," Thorin teased with a twinkle in his eye. "Besides, will a simple washcloth not suffice to appease your cleanliness standards?"
"Well, I was carefully suggesting that perhaps it'd be of interest to you if we'd go ahead and soil ourselves in another manner but that offer has since gone out of the window since you so heavily insist upon refining your dreadful sense of humor." Bilbo countered haughtily, taking a step back away from the dwarf entirely.
"Ah, my mistake then, my apologies," Thorin said with far too much amusement in his tone, wrapping an arm around the hobbit and pulling him back towards his warmth. "You've flour on your nose."
"And you've flour in your beard. And on your brow, and your cheek, and somehow along your eyelashes - and just what have you done in my kitchen? Did you happen to attempt becoming one with the flour in an effort to understand it?"
“The mixture put up a valiant fight—“
“It seems as though it has won, entirely.” Bilbo cut in, raising a brow in a matter that was unimpressed.
"We mutually agreed on a truce," Thorin denied, grazing his nose along the curve of Bilbo's cheek. "And once I've fully regained my strength, I will attempt to overcome it once more."
“Yes, well, I sincerely wish you all the luck in the world,” Bilbo muttered distractedly. “It’s apparent to me that you will need it.”
“You’ve flour on your cheek, now,” Thorin said as he pulled away, his eyes lingering on Bilbo’s face.
“Mm, and whose fault is that?” Bilbo hummed, content as Thorin leaned in once more and brushed his lips over the spot he had just lingered over only moments before.
“The flour, of course. It has an agenda of its own.”
“Thorin, please just kiss me.” Bilbo huffed, quietly amused.
To which the older dwarf obeyed, slotting their lips together as if it were always so, as if they had once been carved with the other in mind; a missing piece he had thought himself forever lost. The kiss was slow and unhurried - like the majority of their life since they had settled in The Shire - for they had no such place to be rather than enveloped in one another’s arms.
"Perhaps, I should let you bake more often.” Bilbo smiled once they had finally pulled away, carefully cupping the apple of Thorin’s cheeks.
“If you give me further baking privileges it’s safe to say we’ll be losing all sorts of homemade staples, such as your brilliant biscuit recipe or your mother’s famous blackberry tarts. I couldn’t even accomplish the simple task of making a scone.”
"I'm sure you will master it in no time," Bilbo pressed another chaste kiss against Thorin's lips. "But, scones or no scones, I think we've earned ourselves a lovely nap in front of the fire - after we've finished bathing, of course," Bilbo said with a playful glint in his eyes, pulling Thorin towards the bathroom.
"Oh? I thought the majority of hobbits don't nap until after they've finished luncheon?"
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m unlike most hobbits, then, isn’t it?” Bilbo said with a shrug, continuing to tug Thorin through their shared smial.
Thorin only clung on tighter to his hand in response. Yes, he supposed it was.