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The first time it happened Bilbo thought it was an accident. Ori approached with his journal clutched to his chest and quill pen tucked behind his ear, looking earnest and hopeful. Even though Bilbo hadn't been with the Company more than a couple weeks, he could see the polite, young dwarrow was nervous from the way he bit at his lip and traced his fingers along the leather cover of his journal in unsteady, incomprehensible patterns. He came right up into Bilbo's personal space, less than a proper foot from actually running into him.

"Mister Ori? Is there something I can help you with?" Bilbo asked, not unkindly despite his odd behavior, for he quite liked Ori. The lad was quiet and thoughtful, and one of the few dwarrows who was actively interested in Bilbo, both as a friend and a source of knowledge for hobbits. And Ori was more than willing to tell tales of dwarvish customs and histories in return.

"No-o," Ori dragged out the vowel in a long, wheezing sound. "I wanted to, to extend friendship, Mister Bilbo… Officially?" He smiled uncertainly and then leaned even closer and whispered, "Is this alright? I've never done this before."

"I don't see how it wouldn't be," Bilbo said, mystified. "I quite thought us friends days ago."

"Oh!" Ori blushed. "I'd not noticed. Maybe it's the boots? They're very thick, you know. Hard to notice much of anything through them."

Bilbo glanced down at Ori's boots, mystification growing with every second. He couldn't fathom the dwarves' obsession with boots. He began to say, "Is that so?" but quite lost the thread of his thoughts when he saw what it was Ori was doing. "Ori," he said instead, "You're standing on my foot."

Bilbo would have thought being stepped on by a dwarrow would be a noticeable event indeed despite the thick, protective skin of a hobbit's feet, but Ori stood there so carefully with the tip of his boot just over the top of Bilbo's own toes that Bilbo hadn't noticed a thing. He wondered if Ori had been standing on his foot since he'd walked up to him.

"I don't know the standard customs," Ori said, voice hushed, "But I didn't want to press too hard. We are friends then?"

"Of course," Bilbo said, and smiled bemusedly when Ori beamed and leaned in to hug him quickly before dashing back to his brothers' side and hurriedly opening his journal. Just beyond them Thorin sat with his nephews, Fíli saying something to Kíli with a sharp grin, but Thorin stared daggers in Bilbo's direction.

Dwarves were strange beings indeed. But Bilbo thought no more of the entire evening than that and put it from his mind.

~*~

"In the usual way of things, I'd just exchange a couple recipes," Bombur said conversationally one evening as Bilbo helped him prepare that night's meal. It was another triumph in stew, Bilbo thought a bit drily, consisting of water, three conies, chunks of potato, and the few wild vegetables Bilbo had been able to convince Bombur to use, including a lovely couple of onions. Then Bombur had pulled spices from some secret pocket, a blessing if Bilbo had ever seen one, and suddenly the meal felt a great deal brighter. Even if Bilbo was quickly growing sick of stew.

When Bombur didn't elaborate, Bilbo glanced up from stirring the pot. "Recipes?" he prompted.

"To celebrate a friendship," Bombur said. "More of a casual exchange than anything else, I admit, but always a nice start to a friendship."

"Hobbits share recipes similarly, though it sounds like ours are much more serious affairs. We save especially important recipes for important occasions, the most common being marriage." He laughed slightly, "Sometimes not even then; we hoard our best recipes like the finest gold and like to keep such things in the family. My mother refused to tell my father what was in her spicy bean stew all their days because he was a Baggins and not a Took, and he held back his plum bread recipe in return. I think that last was more a fit of pique on his part than anything."

"Marriage?" Bombur repeated, looking astonished.

"Sometimes. Courting too, after a year or so," Bilbo said. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Would you like to know my father's plum bread recipe?"

"There are no spare supplies for such extravagances as plum bread, Master Hobbit," Thorin snapped, abruptly appearing at their side to drop fresh firewood beside the campfire, a fierce scowl on his face.

"I didn't mean to make it," Bilbo began only to be interrupted.

"No fruit anyway," Bombur said, and in the moment it took Bilbo to glance at Bombur, the temperamental dwarf king had already moved away. Bilbo frowned at his retreating back before looking back to Bombur questioningly.

The usually unflappable cook was blushing, much to Bilbo's confusion. "Ah, as it happens, I'm a happily married fellow, Mister Bilbo. Though I would gladly be friends and share recipes." And before Bilbo could so much as say a word to correct Bombur's assumptions, the large, cheerful dwarf stood and then quite solemnly stepped on Bilbo's foot before scuttling off with a mutter about more spices.

Bilbo stared blankly after him, quite baffled, and reached down absently to rub at his abused foot. He'd been so shocked he hadn't even yelped at the pain of being stepped on by someone of Bombur's admirable size, not to mention the boots. What in the wide world that had been about, he couldn't begin to guess. Did Bombur think Bilbo had just proposed? They'd known each other barely three weeks! Though Bombur was quite attractive by hobbit standards indeed… It took years upon decades for hobbits to become anywhere near so round.

Oh well, he would sort it out the next time he could catch a quiet moment with Bombur.

~*~

It was after the incident with the trolls when one of Thorin's mischievous nephews approached Bilbo. (Why the dwarves called them Thorin's sister-sons was a tricky little bit of language Bilbo was dying to ask about, but had reluctantly put to the back of his mind after considering their appalled—and appalling—reactions to his first inquiries into their language.)

After the dawn broke and the trolls were turned to stone, while half the Company was off investigating the troll caves, Fíli approached and clasped his shoulder. Admittedly, Bilbo felt an upwelling of nervousness. Neither Fíli nor Kíli were known for their manners, and after the foolishness with the trolls only hours ago, he was sure they would lead him into more mischief. Not that he would have minded on better days, but this day he'd been sneezed on by trolls, nearly murdered by trolls, and reprimanded by Thorin. And he still hadn't decided which of the three was worst.

Thorin's nephews had been reprimanded too, for having lost track of the ponies in the first place, but somehow that didn't take the sting out of things. Bilbo was a grown hobbit and he did not need to be scolded like a fauntling. Worst of all was his own awareness that he had indeed messed up in spectacular fashion, so busy trying to prove his worth among the dwarrows by stealing from the trolls that he hadn't bothered listening to his common sense. He'd nearly got everyone eaten. It was no comfort that the lads had goaded him into it. Bilbo should have known better; it wasn't like he had no experience with younger cousins, and Took cousins at that.

So when Fíli settled his hand on Bilbo's shoulder and thanked Bilbo in a quiet voice for talking their way out of things, Bilbo didn't know how to respond. He'd expected mischief and teasing, not thanks or Fíli's sincere, if tentative smile. But Fíli's eyes were wary and Bilbo found himself smiling back, broad and unreserved, as he squeezed Fíli's arm in return. The young dwarf seemed to understand the silent reassurance he had no intention of filling Thorin in on the rest of the details regarding the trolls and how exactly Bilbo had been led into burgling them. No, Thorin had enough to be displeased about without grinding salt into the wound.

Fíli gave a soft sigh of relief and patted his shoulder firmly. "A true friend, Mister Baggins."

"If we're friends, then it is just Bilbo, if you please," Bilbo said.

Fíli's smile became a little fuller. "Then it is Fíli, Bilbo. And Kíli to my idiot brother."

"Oy!" Came the muffled protest some few feet away and Bilbo twisted around in time to see Kíli ducking behind a tree. Apparently Fíli had been sent out as the advance guard. When he turned back he found Fíli's smile had gone mischievous.

"Should you like to exchange 'recipes' at any time, I'm sure I know some you would find appealing," he said with an extravagant wink. And then he stepped on Bilbo's foot, patted Bilbo appreciatively on the back when Bilbo yelped, and wandered off.

Half the Company turned to stare at him as he rubbed his foot against the back of his other leg, a red flush of indignation and embarrassment rising in his ears and even his cheeks. Of all the absurd things--! He should have known Fíli was there for nothing but mischief.

Thorin shoved past Bilbo from the entrance of the smelly troll hoard, looking thunderous as he ever had. The cave must have been truly dreadful, to worsen his mood at all after the troll debacle. There were some mutters among the dwarrows and Kíli gave an especially loud—to Bilbo, at least—gasp from behind his tree, sounding for all the world like he'd said, "Ooooh, do I have the best plan!" Or at least some muffled thing with "I" and "best plan" and, Bilbo sincerely hoped he heard incorrectly, "Mister Boggins."

But then Thorin began shouting orders at the Company. It was a welcoming distraction that took everyone's eyes off Bilbo, and Bilbo's mind off Fíli and Kíli.

Gandalf laid a hand on his shoulder—far too reminiscent of Fíli, so shortly after his trouble-making—and offered Bilbo a small elvish blade. "Here. This is about your size."

~*~

After their mad dash across the plains, wargs and orcs on their heels, and after they reached the safety of Rivendell, Óin insisted on giving every one of them a look over. 'Insisted' meant shouting—because Óin had no sense of volume control, with his hearing—and shoving his victims toward a little, airy room off to the side of the set of bedrooms they had been given for the duration of their stay. A room where he would poke and prod and ask embarrassing questions loud enough to be heard through the door.

Bilbo had not often dealt with healers in his life, but he could say without a doubt that through all of his experiences, Óin was the gruffest, worst-mannered sort he'd ever met. He was also likely the best.

After Óin had decided Bilbo was not at death's doorstep, and indeed not even in the neighborhood, he slapped him on the back and shooed him on his way. "Perfect health!" he shouted. "Always a good thing to know. The trouble you're stirring, you'll need all the health you can get, lad!"

Bilbo hesitated on his quick trek toward the door—and to freedom—at those words. Turning back to Óin, he said, half-reluctantly, "What do you mean I'm stirring trouble, Mister Óin?"

"Eh? You've got to speak up, lad! Hearing's not what it used to be," Óin boomed and lifted his trumpet to his ear.

"Trouble? I'm not stirring any trouble!" Bilbo raised his voice, leaning in toward the dwarf despite his better judgment that he should be making good his escape, not wandering back into range lest Óin discover a bruise worth treating after all.

Óin scoffed, "Why, the doe eyes and flirtin', what else? You're in for some rough going, laddie. Dwarves don't court easily. Too quick tempered, you know. Don't like to share either. Playing a shaky game. Though I do remember some fine dams who could work a crowd of dwarrows like the finest of fiddlers…" The horrified look on Bilbo's face must have struck a chord with the healer, for he chuckled and patted Bilbo on the back again—something that felt more like a smart thump, but it was the thought that counted. "I'm sayin' you're to tread carefully and not pick up any more trouble than you can handle, understand?"

"I've not—I wouldn't go around flirting," Bilbo said. And then, because the words had only just sunk in, "What do you mean, doe eyes? I do not have doe eyes!"

Óin gave him an exasperated sort of half eye roll that Bilbo couldn't interpret for the life of him. Perhaps the dwarf was asking the Valar for patience, which Gandalf did quite frequently in their company. "You're an alright sort, laddie. A bit dim, but I've never held that against a dwarf before and won't hold it against you. Now remember, don't let 'im bully you around. Burglars need a bit of spine to manage." Óin tromped forward and quite deliberately trod on Bilbo's foot, and he somehow didn't hear Bilbo's yelp of pain as he moved past him and out the door. Bilbo was left to hop on one foot for quite some time, or at least until he managed to hop over to a chair and let his foot recover for awhile.

The dwarves were mad, Bilbo decided sourly as he massaged the top of his foot, the lot of them. Absolutely nutters.

~*~

Or maybe they all knew something he didn't, Bilbo decided three days later.

He'd been in a foul enough mood the last few days that he'd made himself scarce among the Company. He was sure if one more dwarrow stepped on his toes—or foot or the curly hair he was quite proud of—or otherwise insinuated he was…flirting, he would lose his temper and bop someone on the nose.

Punching a dwarf did not sound like a good plan, so Bilbo fled to the library instead, or anywhere he would never expect to see any of them. The library was, for the most part, quite the success. Ori popped in every now and then, but largely dwarves were a sight unseen, and Bilbo had taken to lovely teas on one of the library's balconies with an elf named Erestor, Lord Elrond's chief councilor and Rivendell's unofficial librarian. They had become fast friends, sharing much in common, including a love of books, history, storytelling and tea.

But the days were often tainted by his niggling frustrations with the Company, and the unsettling sense he was missing something vital. Or several somethings. He couldn't stop wondering at Óin's words. Who thought Bilbo was flirting? And who was the 'him' who tried to bully him? Alright, there was Bombur, and their misunderstanding about recipes, but Bilbo was sure Bombur realized Bilbo hadn't been flirting. Or so he'd tried to explain to the cook the next morning, and Bombur had laughingly accepted his explanation and apology. And Bombur certainly never bullied him. Nor Ori, or even Fíli, though the lad was almost a Took in nature. Perhaps Thorin, but Thorin had no more to do with flirting than any of the others! Less so, in truth, considering how little Thorin could stand him, constantly watching and glaring and making sharp remarks.

Bilbo felt like he was looking at a mystery with half the puzzle pieces missing. And quite possibly the half he did have belonged to a different puzzle.

It was Erestor Bilbo complained to, in between their long discussions on elvish stories and hobbit traditions and every sundry topic that caught their fancy.

"Stepping on your toes?" Erestor mused. "Dwarves are not known for their respect of others, it is true, but perhaps you should broach the subject with them and ask them to respect your culture as you do theirs. As to its connection to romance, I cannot say."

Bilbo blinked. "Er, no," he said, "that's not… The Company has been quite nice on the whole, truthfully. They're a bit rough and rowdy at times, but they're really quite kind beneath it, and not terribly worse than a big family to-do in the Shire." He smiled faintly. "Even the ones who don't particularly care for my presence, I can see how they care for each other, for their kin and the Company as a whole…"

He blushed and coughed when he realized he was rambling and Erestor was staring as though Bilbo were a delightful new discovery. "I meant they're literally stepping on my toes, Erestor. Every time I turn around, there's another dwarf sneaking up to trod on my feet! It's most distressing… and they're always gone before I can ask what in the world is going on."

"Stepping on your toes, literally." Bilbo could see Erestor found the concept baffling, insofar as elves ever looked baffled. "In such heavy footwear?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "Are your feet well?"

Bilbo found his lips twitching despite himself. "Thus far they've survived every encounter, yes. I fear if it keeps up that might change. I swear I thought Óin's boot pinched off half my hair before I looked down and saw it all still there!"

Erestor shook his head, though his mouth too quirked in a faint smile. "Strange. Perhaps we could discuss it over a fresh pot of tea, Bilbo? We may peruse what the library has on dwarven customs, to see if anything sheds light on your mystery."

"Tea sounds lovely," Bilbo said delightedly. "Maybe with some of those almond cakes?"

Erestor murmured agreement. As they stood from the bench they'd claimed as their own on the balcony he asked, "Do your dwarves not know stepping on toes is an insult to your kin?"

Bilbo shook his head. "I think it's a dwarven custom, but it is hard to ask about their ways sometimes, they hold things so secret. I think I may have to grin and bear it; I don't want to offend anyone."

He turned at the sound of a soft rustling, expecting to find an elf that needed Erestor's advice—an instance that happened with some frequency in the library—but found nothing. No, by the window there was a flash of deep red hair, Bilbo thought, and he squinted into the darkening shadows of dusk. Perhaps it'd only been the curtains rustling in the wind, revealing one plant or another along the edges of the balcony.

Though he didn't remember any red plants out there.

~*~

Dori came on him like a bull prepared to charge. A polite bull with a tailor's measure rope thrown about his neck and a lengthy piece of leather and a satchel of tools tucked under one arm.

"Mister Bilbo," he called across the library, paying no mind to the few elves that startled from their studies. Bilbo peered around the edge of his cushy armchair to find Dori making a beeline toward him.

"Hullo, Dori," he said, half cheerful and half resigned. Dori was by far one of his favorite dwarves to spend an afternoon with, for they had much in common, from fine teas and wines, to cloth, and even their affection for Ori. Of course, Dori adored Ori much more, but Bilbo knew his own friendship with the shy scribe had done much to ingratiate him to Dori's good will.

But he'd been in the middle of such interesting tales of a race of beings called the Onodrim, or as far as Bilbo could translate: Ents, giant tree-folk. What a thrill meeting such a being would be! He'd hoped to finish the book before dinner and only reluctantly put it aside when Dori pulled up beside his chair.

"Mister Bilbo," Dori began.

"It's just Bilbo, Dori," Bilbo tried for what felt like the hundredth time.

Dori ignored him, as usual. "I'd like to take your measurements," he said, a glint in his eye.

"My measurements?" he asked, entirely taken aback. "I don't think I need new clothes, do I?" Bilbo knew the dwarves thought little of the clothing he'd packed—or any of Bilbo's equipment, truthfully—but he was finding it serviceable enough despite the short amount of time he'd had to throw everything together. He prepared himself to tell Dori exactly that, but the dwarrow was already kneeling before Bilbo's chair, tugging one of Bilbo's feet out and whipping the measuring cord along his sole from toe to heel.

"Dori!" Bilbo hissed and yanked his foot back. Or, well, he tried to, but Dori had an iron grip on his ankle and already had the cord measuring Bilbo's heel to calf. "Dori," Bilbo said again, mortified. "What in the world are you doing?"

"You need boots, Mister Bilbo," he said flatly.

"I most certainly don't!" Bilbo finally managed to yank his foot back to safety. Of all the impropriety! He was sure he was red as a tomato from the way Dori had grabbed his feet so. And in public.

"It's for the best," Dori insisted. "Think of the terrain and distance we must cover yet. Mountains will be less kind on your soles than your home Shire is."

Bilbo eyed him warily and edged himself over the arm of the chair until he was standing with it between him and the dwarf. He sidled back a step. "Hobbits do not wear shoes, and I shall not be the first to do so." Oh, that wasn't strictly true. There were some soft-footed—or outright peculiar—hobbits who preferred to go around in shoes, but Bilbo was neither. "Why, if I put a pair of boots on I'd trip over…over my own two boots. No, absolutely not, can't be done, nope."

Dori frowned severely. "Now, Mister Bilbo—"

"Is there some other reason you're insisting on such a ludicrous idea?" Bilbo asked. "You've seen perfectly well I've traveled over all sorts of terrain without harm so far."

"Ludicrous?" Dori cried out in dismay. "Mountains are different, Mister Bilbo, which you'll discover to your regret if you keep going around as you are."

"It is, Dori. Entirely ludicrous." Bilbo narrowed his eyes. "And there is another reason, isn't there? Whatever is it?"

Dori twined the cord between his fingers, seeming to think whether he wished to answer at all. After a minute he sighed, shoulders dropping, and admitted, "I worry for your feet."

"But they've been fine all this way, and will stay so," Bilbo said earnestly. "Really, mountains will leave me no worse for wear, Dori."

Dori shook his head. "That's not what I mean. Some of us are not so careful of our strength, or aware of our step." He slanted a critical gaze over Bilbo, head to toe. "One of these days someone will be overeager or thoughtless, and then where will we be? A hobbit with a broken foot!"

Bilbo stared at him in confusion. But another puzzle piece drifted into place. "Is this about everyone's stepping on my toes?"

Dori shook his head. "Tis a peculiar custom, if I do say so." But he sighed and slung the cord back around his neck. "Are you quite sure about the boots, Mister Bilbo?"

"What? Oh, yes, quite sure, Dori," Bilbo said, distracted by the thought that Dori found all this business strange as well.

"You wouldn't try a pair for a few days for my sake?"

"No, really Dori, I insist." In his distraction he missed Dori's resigned nod that quickly turned into determined steps until Dori was mere inches away from him. The dwarrow squeezed his shoulders, holding him in place as if afraid Bilbo would make some sudden movement, and pressed the iron toe of one foot lightly against the top of Bilbo's toes while staring earnestly into Bilbo's astonished face. "You're a kind hobbit, Mister Bilbo, if peculiar. Why don't we share a nice, quiet tea tomorrow morning?"

Bilbo nodded mutely and watched Dori quickly trot from the library. He blinked dazedly and when he turned back to his chair he found Erestor watching him from across the room, looking as puzzled as Bilbo felt.

How could Dori be confused by a dwarven custom? And what could the dwarves possibly mean by stepping on his toes all the time? Perhaps that was why they always wore such heavy, clunky boots, if they were always treading on each other's toes.

~*~

"I had an idea," Kíli declared brightly the morning after Bilbo's odd encounter with Dori. Bilbo was pining into his tea, knowing they would leave Rivendell in only a few short days and missing the remarkable halls already.

Kíli elbowed Bilbo lightly in the side and when that still garnered no reaction he stole one of Bilbo's sweet rolls. Bilbo frowned at him. Kíli grinned. "I had an idea, Bilbo!"

"Just the one?" he asked. Perhaps he wasn't feeling particularly patient this morning. One of the Company—or three—snorted into their food along the breakfast table.

Kíli's smile was beatific and uncaring. "You see, it struck me, days and days ago. I remember how many flowers you had about your Bag-End, and how important they are to hobbits, isn't that right? Would you walk with me in the gardens, Bilbo? We could look at the flowers."

Oh. Didn't Bilbo feel like a rotten, mean-spirited fool. And if he felt a slight flush warm his ears, he hoped they were hidden enough to go unnoticed. Kíli obviously didn't know what such an invitation meant. How could he know how flirtatious it was? Or that it promised the start of a romance? Bilbo should turn him down, because of that. But Kíli wouldn't know, and he was being unaccountably kind. And Bilbo did miss his garden. All of which was why Bilbo found himself saying, "That sounds like a splendid idea, Kíli. I would enjoy that very much."

Somewhere down the table something slammed down, rattling half the dishware. Bilbo looked up to see Thorin scowling, and Balin whispering in his ear. At least Thorin didn't seem to be glaring at him this time, instead he was half turned toward Balin, a mutinous expression on his face. Though Bilbo hoped he wasn't upset by some elvish thing. Again. What the dwarf king had against elves everywhere, Bilbo could not understand. But then again, neither race behaved overly well toward the other. Some of the elves in Rivendell were downright rude to the Company, which was no way to behave toward guests. Even guests who thought it was entertaining to throw bread rolls at dinner or build campfires in marble halls with convenient bits of furniture.

"We can go now, if you're finished with breakfast?" Kíli suggested.

"Oh! Yes, quite so. It's best to admire gardens in morning light, any hobbit will tell you. Well, in the morning or during a pleasant, warm afternoon." He beamed. "We can bring along a few extra sweet rolls for a snack." The way Kíli's face lit up at the idea, Bilbo knew they'd hit on just the thing. It would be a splendid morning, Bilbo decided, despite his previously gloomy thoughts. And he would not waste his last days in Rivendell being a sad Sackville.

Bilbo and Kíli spent hours in the gardens, strolling down every serene path the grounds offered, of which there were many. The flowers and shady trees were endless, and often there would be an alcove or grotto with benches or sheltered platforms to rest upon. Its beauty rivaled the Shire in Bilbo's mind, which he confessed to Kíli.

Yet what impressed Bilbo more was how Kíli never seemed to be bored or restless. He asked Bilbo every question under the sun about plants and flowers. And when Bilbo told him flowers had meanings to hobbits and Kíli asked what they were, the dwarrow began picking a select number.

Bilbo shot a furtive glance around at the action; would the elves mind their ransacking the gardens? But no one came forward to stop them. Though in his surreptitious glances, Bilbo did spy a handful of dwarves he had not noticed before. They too were enjoying the gardens, which Bilbo found suspicious. Glóin appeared to be talking to a tree—or at least staring intently at one, though Bilbo was sure he saw the dwarf's beard waggling—just to the right in the nearest grotto. And Dwalin was a ways down the path behind them, scowling and…sniffing a flower? Bilbo frowned and turned to ask Kíli what they might be up to, but Kíli had wandered off to a patch of golden flowers and was inspecting them with a fierce look of concentration.

When Bilbo moved to his side, Kíli asked, "What are these?"

He shook his head with a small smile, "Golden coreopsis, for the most part, though there are geraniums tucked in between, some lovely purples and reds they are, too."

"They look cheerful," Kíli noted.

Dwarves, Bilbo thought with some astonishment, would forever be a mystery to him, and full of surprises. Perhaps especially Kíli, who had such unexpected depths of hobbitishness to him. "That's exactly so; they mean cheerful, or the coreopsis do in any case. The geraniums are flowers of friendship."

Kíli's gaze narrowed before he reached down to pluck two golden flowers and one red one to add to his quickly growing bundle.

"I think," Bilbo said, eyeing the large bouquet and fearing for the rest of Elrond's gardens, "it is well time for a spot of lunch, wouldn't you say?" A rumbling from his stomach concurred.

Kíli flashed a brilliant grin. "I only need one more, Bilbo. Hold these?" And he shoved the flowers in Bilbo's arms and dashed off down the path.

Bilbo sighed and slowly made his way toward one of the nearer entrances back toward the common dining hall. He had no doubt Kíli would follow him without a problem. The lad had a nose for food that would rival any hobbit's. When Kíli returned, suddenly appearing at Bilbo's side and keeping pace with him toward their awaiting lunch, he had half a dozen roses clutched in his arms and more than a few thorn-pricks on his hands.

"There were so many colors!" Kíli said in justification when he saw Bilbo's face. "I couldn't pick so I got several." He juggled his latest collection into one arm and plucked the bouquet back from Bilbo to jumble them all together. "What do you think, Mister Boggins?"

"Your hands, Kíli," Bilbo moaned, distressed. "We should clean those and dab some of Óin's cure on them."

"What? Oh, those." Kíli inspected one of his blood-dotted hands. "I've had worse. Once I fell from a tree and landed in a bush of stickers. I looked like one of those porcupine animals. Uncle and Mam were furious with worry. Took two hours to pull all of the thorns and stickers out." He laughed at Bilbo's horrified expression. "It could have been worse; the stickers missed my eyes or anything like that."

When they reached the table Kíli stopped them both and bowed low, his hair almost dragging on the ground. Before Bilbo could work out whether he was supposed to reciprocate—the last time any of the Company had bowed to him had been their introduction on his doorstep—Kíli was thrusting the messy bouquet into Bilbo's arms.

"For you, Bilbo, and perhaps you would honor me with another walk tomorrow." He grinned, stepped forward, right onto Bilbo's foot, hard enough to have Bilbo wincing even as he was struck speechless, and then moved smoothly past him to go sit at his brother's side.

Bilbo sat dazedly on the nearest seat to him, staring down at the bouquet he'd unwittingly helped pick out, not paying any mind to the way Thorin huffed and shifted beside him.

"They are only flowers, Burglar," Thorin snapped, when Bilbo had not looked up from his catalogue of them some minutes later. He only distantly took note of the tension in Thorin's voice; the dwarf king was displeased with something. Again. The meeting with Elrond must have gone poorly.

"Not quite," Bilbo said absently, too busy with his shock over Kíli to pay mind to worries over Elrond. There were the coreopsis, geranium, and the riot of roses—orange, purple and deep red… But also sweet pea, daffodils and daisies, delphinium, meadowsweet and angelica. "No, this will never do." He carefully set to rearranging the flowers, muttering to himself more than any of the dwarves trickling in to lunch. He hardly noticed Glóin and Dwalin entering together, or Dwalin dropping down on Thorin's other side and muttering low, incomprehensible words to the king.

"They mean things? Kíli said something about that." At some point Bofur had sat beside him, watching much as Thorin was doing as Bilbo began trimming leaves and reorganizing them, making a spectacular mess of the table as bits of green went flying.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, quite so." He pointed out the delphinium and daffodils, which he'd placed at the center of the bouquet along with the coreopsis and geranium. "These are new beginnings and levity, along with cheer and friendship." He added in some of the meadowsweet and daisies around them. "Uselessness or inexperience," he said, lips twitching, "and innocence." He added in only one stem of angelica, which stood out like a beacon around the rest, and then tucked in the three sprigs of sweet pea in among the arrangement. "Inspiration," he said, "and small pleasures.

"It's a bit of a Company bouquet, isn't it? Bouquets are usually given as gifts to some purpose in the Shire. It's usually the starting invitation to a courtship and picking exactly the right flowers is quite a popular pastime among tweens. But we also give them for occasions, parties and weddings and holidays, or as gifts to express what we think of others. A Company bouquet would not be so far out of the realm of things."

"Doesn't seem like too much trouble to pick flowers out for lovers." Bofur's grin was broad when Bilbo looked up, his tone mischievous.

"It's an art," Bilbo corrected firmly.

"An art giving some lass a flower saying some lad would like to—"

"Bofur," he said sharply. "That sort of suggestion would get any tween tossed in the Brandywine and they'd full deserve it."

"What do you say with them?" Ori had moved himself right across Bilbo at the table, having pulled his ever-present journal out, a quill poised in his fingers and bottle of ink resting where a water glass would have sat.

"As I said, it's an art." Bilbo shot Bofur a dirty look. "You should ask Kíli later, as I explained quite a bit to him earlier, but a lad or lass who wishes to begin a courtship will offer flowers of intent, and all sorts of things can be done. Many hobbits like to give bouquets of flowers mixed with traits they have and traits their intended has, or flowers signifying how they complement each other, and so on. It can be so elaborate as to become a game, and the better the selection the giver offers, or the better the intended puzzles it out, the better match they show themselves to be."

"Sounds complicated," Fíli said at Kíli's side. He shot his brother a sly glance. "You're not wooing our burglar, are you, brother?"

Kíli only laughed and shoved him in the shoulder, sending Fíli sprawling to the floor.

"But you've not added any roses in," Ori nodded to the long, prickly stems lying on the table, apparently choosing to ignore the princes.

"The roses." Bilbo sighed, eyeing them with some dismay. Kíli had picked out a good dozen, four or five buds in each of the three colors. There were far too many, and the meanings far too silly. He would add perhaps one of each, because Kíli had plucked them already, but they weren't quite fitting to the others in the bouquet. He absently rubbed his foot against the back of his leg, the one Kíli had stepped on that still itched from the way his boot had pulled at Bilbo's hair. "These mean fascination, enchantment and beauty," he said as he pointed out each, picking up an orange bud and carefully pruning back some of its leaves and thorns before working it into the bouquet.

He startled as Thorin stood abruptly and stormed from the room, giving Bofur a questioning look. Bofur only shrugged.

Oh, well. Bilbo thought the flowers were a lovely gesture even if Thorin found them offensive. Though he wasn't half sure what Kíli truly meant by them, Fíli's joking aside.

~*~

Nori was grinning down at Bilbo when he woke the next day, which no doubt explained the strangled shout Bilbo let out.

"Mornin', sunshine," the thief said, sounding more than a little gleeful for Bilbo's peace of mind so early in the morning.

"You might have knocked, Nori," Bilbo said groggily.

"What makes you think I didn't and you didn't sleep through it?" Nori asked, reasonably. Bilbo couldn't help noticing the dwarf didn't say he had knocked, only that he might have. "Maybe I was afraid you'd been absconded with, Mister Bilbo. You're the only one sleepin' apart from the Company, after all. Who knows what these elves could get up to in the night?"

Bilbo groaned and rolled over, dragging pillow and covers alike over his head. "You broke into my room because I'm the only one with enough sense to accept the elves' kind offer of rooms—and beds—to sleep in these past two weeks?" he said, though his voice was so muffled he wasn't sure Nori would be able to understand him. "Go away, Nori, I plan to sleep in for as long as I can. We're leaving tomorrow and this is the last day I can enjoy a proper bed for Eru only knows how long."

"Sunshine," Nori said, sounding positively wounded, "you do me an injury, you truly do. I didn't break in; your door was unlocked. I thought we might go walkin' this mornin' like you've done with our resident prince charmin' every day for the last three days."

Bilbo reluctantly pulled the pillow from his face, eyeing Nori skeptically. "You want to go strolling through the gardens?"

"And maybe those fancy galleries up off the library," Nori said. He had to know the library was an eternal temptation for Bilbo, who bit his lip and visibly wavered at the prospect. "I've brought up some breakfast right out in the common room," the dwarf added, clearly hoping to clinch the deal.

It worked. Bilbo relinquished his pillow entirely, sitting up. "So long as you don't mean any funny business, Nori," he said firmly. He did not want to try to explain to Elrond why Nori was trying to slip a book or a painting into his shirt or some such nonsense.

Nori, instead of feigning wounded innocence, only grinned triumphantly. "I'd never, sunshine. Never involve a friend in business, and that's a rule to live by, mark my words."

"And stop calling me sunshine," Bilbo said over his shoulder, already heading to freshen up before breakfast. "I'll meet you outside in just a tick."

They ended up far from either garden or library, as it turned out, and even breakfast turned into breakfast on the go as Nori handed him warm rolls stuffed with nuts and fruit before dragging him from the room. Of all places, they'd ended up at the practice yards, the last place Bilbo would ever choose to go, and where he was treated to the sight of Thorin and Dwalin sparring.

His stomach sank to his boots with a feeling of dread even as his pulse picked up speed, watching the way the two dwarves moved around each other in an intricate dance. The only other time Bilbo had seen such fighting was during the battle with the trolls, and he had been a trifle too busy to notice much. Here and now he could see how familiar the two were with each other, each swing of axe or sword, each step back and forth as though they read each other's minds.

Then he realized Nori was watching him watch them with a keen look in his too-sharp eyes, and Bilbo quickly turned away.

"These aren't the gardens, Nori," he said. There was a rumble and shout, and then a laugh from Dwalin as Thorin began cursing; Bilbo turned just in time to see Thorin launch himself at Dwalin, bearing his sword Deathless… Orcrist lay fallen at the side of the ring. How peculiar. How had Dwalin disarmed Thorin?

"I thought you might benefit from a little experimentation," Nori said smoothly, drawing Bilbo's attention back. "But seein' as the court is occupied, we can eat our breakfast while we wait."

"I have no interest in experimenting with anything," Bilbo declared, but he sat by Nori's side on one of the benches lining the courtyard just off from where Thorin sparred. He kept half an eye on the fight and half an eye on Nori (a wise thing to do in any situation, he'd come to find).

Nori lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. "You might have noticed I'm not your typical dwarf, Mister Bilbo. I go about doin' things in a different fashion. While half the boys are pesterin' you to learn somethin' with your sword, I might have some other ideas."

Bilbo only leveled him with a confused look.

"Knife-throwin'," Nori said, rolling his eyes. "Aulë, I thought you were supposed to be clever. You might give knife-throwin' a try. I overheard you tellin' Ori you've some experience with a slingshot. Now, Dori would have my beard if I taught Ori the finer point of knives. It's not known to be a very, ah, respectable weapon of choice for dwarves, but you might take to it more than a little."

"I happen to be a respectable hobbit," Bilbo protested, ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind that pointed out respectable hobbits did not run off with companies of dwarves. "And if it's not respectable for dwarves, I don't see how it'd be respectable to me." Never mind that no weapons were respectable to a hobbit, except for perhaps a Bounder's tools of their trade. But even being a Bounder, while a noble profession, wasn't considered an overly respectable one. Particularly for a gentlehobbit.

"Eh, Dori doesn't like to admit any one of our noble warriors can throw a knife to within an inch of accuracy. Not as fine an aim as me, mind, but solid enough." Nori shrugged again. "I thought it'd be a nice openin' gesture."

"Opening gesture…" Bilbo said uncertainly.

Nori leaned in conspiratorially. Bilbo resisted the urge to lean away or check his pockets for the nonexistent valuables he wasn't carrying. "I understand you're open to exchangin' 'recipes,' sunshine," he said in a pseudo-whisper. And then he planted his lips on Bilbo.

There was a shout and clanging crash across the courtyard, but Bilbo barely noticed. He was too busy being snogged to within an inch of his life by Nori, hands fluttering uselessly in the air between Nori's broad shoulders and his tri-tipped hair.

Nori was doing a remarkable job of turning the affair into a searing kiss for all that Bilbo was too stunned to respond in kind. Not that he would, and that thought jarred him into pushing against Nori's shoulders, rather ineffectually, and he opened his mouth to protest, in such shock was he, only to have Nori's tongue invade his mouth like a siege army. Well, Bilbo had that coming, didn't he?

He made an inarticulate groan of protest—which in hindsight didn't sound particularly protesting, he supposed—and curled his fingers in Nori's hair to yank on the dark red strands. Dwarves were sensitive enough he knew that would work.

"NORI SON OF BORI, DAUGHTER OF KELRI." A voice roared out of the blue.

Nori disentangled himself so fast Bilbo almost tipped right off the bench. It didn't help that his head was spinning like he'd been swinging around the spring festival's maypole.

Then he caught sight of Dori, who was bearing down on them like a bull, face so red Bilbo feared it would pop right off from the pressure.

"Dori!" Nori yelped, voice at least an octave higher than normal. He looked ten shades of dismayed before annoyance settled over his features. Bilbo blushed, ears no doubt going deep red, to see Nori's lips were swollen. The way his own lips were tingling, they were surely in a similar condition.

"What." Dori finally reached them, only stopping when his boots hit up against Nori's. He took a deep breath. "Do. You. Think. You're. Doing?"

Nori sent his brother a waspish glare. "Bilbo and I were havin' a discussion—"

Bilbo squeaked in protest, and shoved his mind in high gear to form the words to match.

Dori's eyes narrowed, gaze flickering to Bilbo and back to Nori. "An interesting discussion, to be sure. How fortunate I was looking for you and Ori just happened to mention you'd gone off for a walk with our burglar. Strange, that, I'd thought to myself, considering you'd assured me you'd be around to help with shoring up our packs this morning."

Nori leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. "Other plans came up. I'm givin' Bilbo throwin' lessons."

"Is that what you'd call it," Dori said, unmoved. "Packing our rations won't get sorted any sooner with you messing about all day, and we are going to have words, Nori, now. You can hear them in front of half the Company or you can come help me pack. Your choice."

Nori sniffed and turned away from his brother. When he looked at Bilbo his cool glare melted into a mischievous grin. "I suppose we can continue this later, Mister Bilbo."

"What," Bilbo sputtered. "No, we most certainly—"

Nori leaned in suddenly, whispering. "What with the talk of recipes, sunshine, and all this toes business, just wanted to see how far you'd let—" and he yelped and shouted as he was suddenly yanked back. Dori had a firm grip in Nori's hair and was hauling him up. "Dori, let go!" Nori shouted, hands scrabbling back at Dori's grip. "You rottin' soft-headed—"

"You're about to know fifteen kinds of murder, Nori," Dori looked so indignant and mortified. If Bilbo was in any state of mind he would have assured Dori it was perfectly alright, everyone had relatives this embarrassing—Bilbo certainly could name a number of his own—but as it was, he was still reeling from Nori's audacity, and the puzzle of his words. When would the dwarves let his little blunder about recipes go? Recipe was not an euphemism, he'd explained time and again. It'd been a misunderstanding! And what did toes have to do with matters again?

And what did it have to do with kissing, for Eru's sake?

Whatever happened next, Bilbo missed it, for Dori had let Nori go—and it must have been Dori's choice because the entire Company marveled at the dwarrow's impossible strength—and Nori was grumbling, but standing.

"We'll talk later, yeah, Mister Bilbo?" Nori mustered up another mischievous smile and danced forward, stepping on the very tips of Bilbo's toes in an almost delicate manner before he danced out of Dori's reach and back toward their rooms. "Come along, brother mine, we've got packing to do."

Dori stalked after him, red-faced and hissing words under his breath, leaving Bilbo alone on the bench in a courtyard that had gone uncomfortably silent for a courtyard that had been ringing with the clash of metal and shouts of dwarves only minutes ago.

Bilbo looked around the wide open space and found first Dwalin and then Thorin, not ten feet apart from each other, both glaring murder at Bilbo. He frowned unhappily at them—causing strife between Nori and Dori was not his fault, he certainly had not asked Nori to kiss him, thank-you-very-much—and stood to leave the yard himself. But he went in the opposite direction of the Ri brothers, for he was not overly interested in running into either one of them at the moment.

~*~

It was six days after they'd left Rivendell, on a wet, dreary day at the edge of the forest, at the foot of the Misty Mountains, when Glóin came tromping over to the log Bilbo sat on and squashed his iron-tipped boot right over the whole of Bilbo's foot.

He didn't look the faintest bit apologetic, either, for the way his boot encompassed Bilbo's foot or in how he'd leaned what felt like half his weight into the move. Glóin just stepped on him and then promptly sat at Bilbo's side.

Bilbo gave off a strangled yelp that he only barely managed to bite back. But perversely, he was grateful for the entire event. It was a refreshing change from the muted glares and sullen silence he'd been on the receiving end of from a good half of the Company the last week. Thorin seemed inexplicably furious with him—more inexplicably furious than usual, that was—and Dwalin wasn't far behind.

Nori had taken to avoiding Bilbo too, for every time he came near him, either Dori or Dwalin would come over, glaring and snapping, and find ways to send Nori off on some unpleasant chore. The first time this had happened, Dwalin had ordered Bilbo off to fetch wood, which seemed to be the only thing Dwalin thought him good for, but when Bilbo had come back to camp with Nori on his heels, the pair of them hauling piles of wood between them, Dwalin had looked sourly between them and never sent Bilbo off since.

Dori did not come near Bilbo, and Bilbo knew why: Dori felt doing so would be an invitation to Nori to do the same. And whether Dori was protecting Nori from Bilbo, or Bilbo from Nori, Bilbo could not say, but it put a definite strain on all of them. Undoubtedly for similar reasons Ori ended up only speaking to Bilbo when they were traveling and spent most of his evenings bookending Nori around the campfire with Dori.

Fíli and Kíli also appeared to be avoiding Bilbo, and he did not know why, except every time they spoke to him, Thorin invariably appeared from the shadows and barked orders for them to do this task or that.

Óin, Bifur and Glóin did not speak much to him either, which was not so unusual, but the general dourness of camp and Bilbo's own dismay at leaving the enchanting realm of Rivendell left him in a state of misery. Bilbo was a social gentlehobbit. This overbearing silence mixed with every other horrible thing about adventuring left him completely out of sorts.

And since they'd ended up sneaking out of Rivendell despite Elrond's genial welcome, Gandalf wasn't there either; Bilbo could have done with his generally exasperating version of conversation (a style which Bilbo theorized wizards tended to favor, though Gandalf was the only wizard he'd ever properly met). Or even a spot of the wizard's version of advice, which tended toward infuriating and unhelpful.

So indeed it was a very welcome thing when Glóin trod on his foot and sat at his side.

"Burglar," Glóin said affably. "Looking downtrodden of late, lad."

Bilbo gave a halfhearted smile. "Likely all the damp and cloudy skies, Mister Glóin. What may I do for you?"

"Nothing, nothing." He waved the offer away, pulling out his pipe and packing it with the Old Toby Bilbo had inspired him to buy the first days of the quest, when they'd still been traveling through the Shire. "Only thought to sit for a spell. Likely we'll be off soon; we've got another good two hours' light to travel before night falls."

Bilbo tilted his head back to look at the grey, cloudy sky. "I suppose we do, though it's a bit hard to tell, isn't it?"

"You learn to read these things," Glóin said. "Takes a bit of practice, is all."

Bilbo's smile became a touch more genuine. "I recall you were telling me of Gimli's first practice at the axe, last time we had a moment, Mister Glóin."

Glóin beamed around the pipe clenched between his teeth. "So I was!" He smacked an amiable thump against Bilbo's back. "You've a keen memory. Now remember that it's Glóin and no 'misters' before or after. Haven't we declared friends, after all?" He made a vague motion at the ground before their feet.

Bilbo was surprised—and more than a little confused at Glóin's aimless wave—but something warm unfurled in his belly. "Quite so, quite so… Glóin." He smiled. "Now, if I recall rightly, Gimli had just taken his first swing, and the handle flew right out of his grip."

Glóin let out a booming laugh. "Nearly took Zagaraz's head right off. Oh, she was furious enough to scold my star straight through two more hours of practice. By the end Gimli looked ready to sink into the very stone to escape her. Ah, but after he'd gone off to the baths Zagaraz beamed with such pride!"

Bilbo—and Glóin—ignored the groans from others not far off from where they sat, or the way Óin lifted his trumpet to his ear and shouted "What?" before hearing Glóin giving lovingly detailed descriptions of his wife's favorite axe weights and shapes and immediately tucking his trumpet away again. According to Glóin, she had nine axes, but favored three, one of which had been Glóin's final courting gift before their marriage. (At least, Bilbo chose 'marriage' as the appropriate word; the dwarrows appeared to have a different definition of such matters, but Bilbo hadn't gotten the full explanations of it. It sounded close enough to marriage by Shire standards.)

The cheeriness Bilbo felt in that moment did not last, but over the next several days, he and Glóin shared many tales of family, and each story was a bright spot in Bilbo's failing spirits.

~*~

Bofur was probably the one dwarf who could read Bilbo best, and he'd been able to do so since day one. Most might have thought his goading Bilbo to the point of passing out over the dread of a dragon was an accident. Bilbo, however, knew the gleam of mischief in Bofur's eyes. It was a very Tookish look; Bilbo had seen it in his mother's eyes every day for well over half his life, and he would recognize it anywhere. And Bofur did enjoy getting a rise out of people with his gruesome sense of humor.

After that incident Bofur's stories hadn't gotten any less gruesome, but Bilbo had been able to parse through them and discover the pleasant, friendly dwarf underneath. He was kindhearted and loyal, and always had a few words to draw a smile from Bilbo.

So somehow he wasn't surprised when Bofur, of all the dwarves, was the one to find what had to be the sole surviving flower along the entirety of the high pass. Especially when it was raining. Nonstop for two days.

Bofur sidled up to his side, which was admittedly not hard to do in the worst thunderstorm Bilbo had ever had the misfortune of witnessing. Storms were meant to be experienced in warm homes, beside a fireplace with a good book, and with winds and rain that never fell above a soothing drumming along the roof. But putting aside the way in which the world was not conforming to Bilbo's exhausted expectations, Bofur had sidled up to his side quite unexpectedly.

And when nudging Bilbo in the side came to no effect—Bilbo honestly thought it was the wind at first—he shoved his face in close to Bilbo's own and shouted,

"I've got a prezzie for you!"

Bilbo turned his head toward the dwarrow against his better judgment; the wind was coming from that direction, and Bilbo found his judgment quite sound for when he tilted his head all he got for his efforts was rain whipped into his face like a volley of arrows. He squinted through the onslaught. "What?"

"A present," Bofur shouted. "For you."

"A present," Bilbo yelled back, incredulous. "Now?"

Bofur, somehow, managed to give off the air of a dwarf rolling his eyes despite the fact that Bilbo could not see more than the soaked hairs of his beard and the bump of his nose sticking out of the hood of his oiled rain cloak."Aye, a present. Maybe not for now."

Bilbo would have leveled a stare of rebuke had he been capable of it. As it was, he gave more of a waterlogged squint.

That's when the mountains rolled beneath his feet. He stumbled back into Dwalin and then forward dangerously to the edge of the cliff, but he felt Dwalin grab his pack and haul him back. Somewhere ahead he heard Balin shout, but could make out no more words than "thunder" and "giant."

Then he looked up. And up. Oh, oh, Eru and Yavanna and any Valar listening, he'd not signed up for…whatever those were. Bilbo did not know—he had never heard of such things, not in all the books he'd ever read. Mountains, moving mountains.

"Well bless me, the legends are true," Bofur gasped. "Giants. Stone giants!"

And then they were moving again as the mountains themselves shifted beneath their feet. Bilbo swallowed back the terror trying to claw its way up his throat. They were standing on a stone giant. Literally standing on a true, living stone giant. And it was moving.

He curled his fists into the dwarves at his sides instinctively, gripping Dwalin and Bofur each as much to hold them back against the violently jerking stone as to hold himself up. He pressed his weight back against the comforting chill of the stone behind him, keeping himself there as much as the momentum would allow. All any of them could do was keep themselves balanced on their precarious perch and watch as the fellows of their Company who'd made it to safety swam in and out of view with pure horror on their faces.

Then the cliff they'd just departed from was hurtling at them—or, Bilbo thought hysterically, they were hurtling toward it at a rapid rate and they would slam into it in only a second.

"Jump!" Dwalin roared at the same time Bilbo instinctively leapt. He felt the lot of them crash to the surface of the cliff, slamming into the unforgiving stone, with the piece of stone giant pressing into them, and he knew they would be crushed, the stone giant's momentum would keep pushing it forward and forward—

—and then the stone was pulling away from their backs as quickly as it had dropped them there. They were in the clear.

Or Bilbo was until the pull of the retreating stone snagged on his pack, dragging him back and straight off the cliff before his pack tore enough to loose him from the stone giant. His fingers dug into the stone as he fell, barely catching on the rain-slicked edge.

He could hear Thorin above him, "No! No! Kíli!" And he felt a swell of panic even as his fingers ached from their grip on the stone and his feet scrabbled uselessly against the wet, smooth cliff beneath him. Surely the others were safe, surely they had not been pulled off. Surely the stone would not have crushed them if it had not managed to crush Bilbo. And he was going to fall, he was going die, and he would not know what befell them.

And then he heard, "We're all right! We're alive!" called from another.

"Where's Bilbo? Where's the hobbit?" Bofur shouted.

"There!"

"Get him!"

He peripherally saw Thorin fall over the edge and for one instant Bilbo's heart leapt into his throat from sheer terror, but Thorin was not falling, his fingers catching on the lip of the cliff as he grabbed Bilbo and threw him back up into the grasping hands of the Company. Bofur hauled him close and Bilbo could do nothing but huddle against his friend as the last five minutes of his life slammed against his thoughts like an entirely new thunderstorm. He'd nearly died. They'd all nearly died. And all for stone giants who did not even know they existed.

"I thought we’d lost our burglar." He distantly heard Dwalin rumble, and he thought he detected a note of relief in the usually unreadable voice. Well, they were all a bit unsteady after the last five minutes.

"He’s been lost ever since he left home," Thorin snapped. "He should never have come. He has no place amongst us."

Bilbo couldn't bring himself to look up as Thorin pushed past them. The dwarf king's words felt like another fall off the mountain, but there was no cliff edge to catch himself on this time, and certainly no prickly dwarf king to pull him back up. Why had Thorin bothered saving him at all?

Worse, he was right. Bilbo had no place in this story or with these dwarrows.

Bofur squeezed his arm. "We're all shaken," he said as low as he could; the stone giants had fallen silent, but the storm was still howling around them. "Let's go find a bit of rest."

When they entered the cave Thorin had led them into, they saw everyone was marking out places to sleep, a fire having been forbidden. Bofur immediately ushered Bilbo toward his kin and Bilbo found himself tucked between the Ur and Ri brothers. When they'd finished reassuring each other everyone was safe and whole, Bofur shifted over to sit at Bilbo's side against the wall of the cave. He reached into his vest and pulled out a stem full of tiny flowers, only a little squashed for their voyage in Bofur's pocket.

"I'm impressed it survived the ride," Bofur laughed. "Maybe there's something to your hobbit flowers after all. Sturdier than they look. But here, this is for you."

Bilbo took it, a look of shock no doubt pasted across his face. "Bofur," he breathed. "How—where did you get this?"

Bofur's smile was gentler than normal, eyes twinkling in the gloom of the cave. "It caught my eye somewhere around midday, I think." He shook his head. "Seemed a shame to leave it there to drown."

"You saw this in the rain?" Bilbo marveled, looking over the only slightly wilted, flattened buttons of flowers. It was half in bloom, but still strong enough to have days in it.

"Aye, and did it ever look tipsy with water. Not thirsty in the least, so I snapped it up to help dry it out," Bofur said.

Bilbo slanted him a slightly waterlogged smile. "In the middle of mountains were the most we've seen in days is scrub and…rocks…and more rocks."

Bofur laughed. "Here now, I don't go insulting your pretty bits of greenery. Don't go insulting my pretty bits of rock."

Bilbo actually snorted a laugh. He hadn't thought he would be able to laugh any time soon. "My apologies, my friend."

Bofur chuckled and tapped his boot a few times against the top of Bilbo's foot. It was the strangest way any dwarf had stepped on his toes yet. But before Bilbo could—finally—ask what that was supposed to mean (if anyone would tell Bilbo a dwarvish secret it would be Bofur) Bofur was speaking, "So what does it mean then?"

"Pardon?" Bilbo asked, thinking Bofur meant the foot thing, which of course Bilbo didn't have the faintest what that meant, except the dwarves seemed to think it made them friends.

"The flower," Bofur said, nodding to it.

"Oh! Oh, well," Bilbo looked down, watching the soft purple-white petals tremble and dance as he twirled the stem gently between thumb and forefinger. "This is yarrow, and very useful too. Any sensible hobbit or healer will have them as they're good for fever and wounds alike, or make a good tea for stomach aches." Bilbo knew he was babbling, but couldn't help himself. The meaning hit close to home, a little too close for his comfort, and leave it to Bofur to get right to the heart of the matter without knowing it. "Their flowers and leaves also make a pleasant addition to salads, you know, and the petals will add a bit of color. It means… It's often given as a cure for broken hearts, among hobbits." And then because he could not let those words lie in the air and risk comment, he added, "Most notably for broken courtships, but occasionally it finds its way to grieving widows or those who have lost kin."

Bofur was about to speak when Thorin snapped from the side, "Bofur, you've first watch."

He was a great deal nearer than Bilbo realized and Bilbo jumped more than a little, the bottom tip of the stem snapping between his fingers. He just caught the flower from tumbling to the sandy floor.

Thorin was frowning at them—at Bilbo, of course, and his flower. He didn't look away until Bofur stood, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder, and headed off to the front of the cave.

Bilbo lay down on his side, away from Thorin in case the dwarf felt like glowering any longer. He could glower at Bilbo's back and that was all there was to it. He used his damp pack as a pillow and didn't bother with his blanket at all; the cave was cold and wet, but the blanket was colder and wetter so there was little point to it. He could not get Thorin's glare or his words out of his head.

The flower had changed his mind, for the briefest of minutes, and he twisted it between his fingers still, holding it close to his chest. But no, Bilbo didn't belong here, and he never would. He closed his eyes, pretended to sleep and made plans to leave before the others woke the next morning.

~*~

After their narrow escape from the goblin caves, including in Bilbo's case an entirely unpleasant game of riddles with a creature that ate orcs for breakfast… and then their narrow escape from the pale orc, and the rescue from the eagles… and the emotional duress of worrying first that Thorin had died, and then that he'd finally decided to ban Bilbo from the Company regardless of contracts or foolish rescues… and then his hugging him…

Well.

Bilbo was exhausted, to say the least. He was fairly certain he'd not slept in at least three days, but it was hard to know for sure considering two of those would have been spent beneath the mountains running for his life from awful goblins and that gollum creature.

So when Dwalin came stomping over, growling out "burglar" and glaring, Bilbo was quite done with him before he'd even started.

"Mister Dwalin," he said—politely of course, because he was a Baggins.

Dwalin frowned down at him.

Bilbo stared back, sitting on the squat, flat rock he'd claimed as a stool for himself and from which he had no intention of moving until Thorin started yelling for them to stop dawdling. Hopefully that was minutes off yet; the warrior king was not looking overly well and Bilbo did not relish the thought of Thorin—or any of them—having to stumble down yet another winding cliff path.

Dwalin looked to be weighing matters, but eventually he came to some decision and stepped forward. Onto Bilbo's foot, of course. Where else did dwarves step around him? Bilbo yelped and lifted both feet quickly off the ground, tucking them up on the very edge of his rock-stool as though Dwalin would do it again.

"Dwalin!" he snapped, and then bit his lip. "Why—no, no, never mind, I'm beginning to wonder if I truly want to know. That hurt, you realize." He glared halfheartedly.

Dwalin's frowned intensified. "'S that mean ye refuse?"

"What?" Bilbo rubbed furiously at his foot, which throbbed dully and itched from the pinched hairs all at once. "What?" he said again, "No, no, of course not. But you might have done a bit more carefully. I'm not shod in solid leather and iron like the rest of you."

Dwalin rolled his eyes to the stone beneath their feet, and Bilbo was sure he was asking Aulë for patience.

"I'm quite serious, Mister Dwalin," Bilbo scolded.

"Dwalin," the warrior snapped.

"I'd like to keep the use of my toes—pardon?"

"It's Dwalin. Yer one of the Company and anyone who bothers saving that idiot over there's friend enough o' mine, so it's Dwalin. Get it right."

Bilbo stared up at him, mouth working silently. Dwalin stared back. Finally Bilbo said, "Dwalin?"

If anything, Dwalin's scowl intensified. "Right."

"Well," Bilbo began. "You can't go stomping on a hobbit's foot—"

But Dwalin was already stomping back over to Thorin, who was watching them with an unreadable expression.

Bilbo gaped after him. Dwalin was the rudest dwarf he had ever met, which was saying something, considering the manners the others sometimes exhibited.

He was also the dwarf of fewest words. That included Bifur, who as it happened was quite chatty for someone who spoke a dialect no one understood.

~*~

After their brief rest there was a long, slow trek down from the Carrock. At least just beyond the Carrock there was a lovely, calm stream that allowed them a very welcome bath.

Several hours after, Bifur walked up to Bilbo, grasped his wrist and led him to a tree near the edge of their makeshift, barebones camp. (Barebones because they'd lost nearly everything in the mountains and so there was little to arrange. If Bilbo had thought adventuring was rough going when they were all packed for it, he dreaded to think what the coming days would bring.) They sat and had a long talk, which is to say, Bifur made complex gestures amid a few guttural dwarvish words—ancient dwarvish, if Bilbo understood the others right in why no one but the Ur brothers could understand more than a few words of Bifur's speech.

Bilbo said very little, except for the occasional, "I'm not sure I catch your meaning, Mister Bifur." And he worked hard at trying to decipher Bifur's mysterious hand movements even though he suspected he shouldn't. The dwarves had a sign language quite apart from the style associated with Westron, and Bilbo suspected he was no more allowed to learn that than he was anything else about their secretive traditions.

After about half an hour of this, Bifur stopped. He stared contemplatively at Bilbo, who stared back and occasionally made a polite inquiry if Bifur was alright.

Finally Bifur nodded—to himself, Bilbo assumed, since neither of them had said anything in the last few minutes—and slowly laid his booted foot over Bilbo's own bare one. He tilted his head questioningly.

"Oh!" Bilbo could have hit himself. "Of course we're friends, Mister Bifur—er, Bifur. Gladly so."

Bifur's eyebrows rose as though he'd solved a particularly tricky puzzle and he beamed at Bilbo and moved his foot away. It was only then Bilbo realized what he'd done; the dwarves had trained him to respond to someone treading on his toes with an acknowledgement of friendship!

He groaned and rubbed at his face. When Bifur said something, he merely peered between his fingers.

Bifur was holding up the most exquisite carving of…of a stem of yarrow, one that looked almost an exact replica of the one Bofur had given him, which now lay wilted and lost somewhere in the goblin caves. "Oh," Bilbo breathed out. "That is lovely, Bifur. Truly, I've not seen a carving so remarkable before! May I?" He held out his hand and motioned to it, glancing up at the dwarrow.

Bifur handed it over. It was a flat length of wood, not even four inches long, in the shape of a yarrow flower. Bilbo marveled over it, running his fingers over the carved cluster of flowers that each had five distinctive petals and the grainy rise of stamen. The work was so delicate the cluster of flowers looked as fine as lace, with filigree peppered between each bud. The thick stem cut a firm line down from the petals, sprouting three fragile sprigs of leaves.

Bilbo offered it back. "It is beautiful, Bifur," he said sincerely.

Bifur accepted it back and quickly wove a leather thong through one of the topmost holes between petals. Bilbo realized just then that particular hole did look quite like a pendant loop for a necklace.

Then Bifur handed it back.

"Oh! I, no, I couldn't, Bifur—"

He caught Bilbo's hand and placed the pendant against his palm, curling his fingers closed gently when Bilbo only stared between him and the necklace. "Bâhwangusmizim."

"I—thank you, Bifur."

The dwarf squeezed his fingers before rising to return to the warmth of the fire.

Bilbo marveled over the pendant a little longer before tying the strip of leather around his neck and returning to the camp himself. If the others glanced curiously at the pendant around his neck, well, none of them asked, and Bilbo was much too proud of it to tuck it away, propriety be bothered.

~*~

Some hours later Bilbo found himself leaning into Gandalf's warmth beside another tree. The camp was silent in sleep, if "silent" could be defined as "the snores of six and a half dwarrows." The half came from Glóin, who made a sort of whistling noise more than snored, but it was enough of a sound to keep a hobbit awake at night.

Bilbo had never been so pleased to see Gandalf as when he'd watched the wizard run past the narrow cave entrance where Bilbo was hidden with Gollum, a troop of dwarves running at his heels. But this, this was a close second. There were more than a few nights he'd missed staying up late to speak with the strange Man—if Gandalf was a Man—and not half borrow some of Gandalf's warmth.

"I don't suppose you know what that business was about?" he asked softly, not wanting to disturb any of their companions. Everyone needed as much sleep as they could grab—and now that Bilbo could, he found himself strangely sleepless—and besides that, Bilbo wasn't much keen on startling any of them awake, as it tended to cause a ruckus with a bunch of shouting about where the enemy was while they all drew their weapons and stumbled about. A hobbit did not know true fear until he found a half-asleep dwarf waving an axe in his face like a fauntling waves a toy.

"Why, Master Bifur was offering his friendship, my dear hobbit, as you well worked out for yourself, I assume, from the way you two parted amicably, and so quickly." Gandalf's words were equally quiet though no less jovial for it. Indeed, he sounded quite entertained and entirely too pleased with his answer.

Bilbo shot him a waspish look, a fortunately easy thing to do since he was short enough to see under the wide brim of Gandalf's hat to catch the shadows across his face. "That's not what I meant at all, and I'm quite sure you know it too." He waved at his feet. "Why do they keep stepping on my toes, Gandalf? I can't fathom it. Is it a custom of friendship among dwarves?"

Gandalf gave him a half-smile like a cat who got into the cream. "I couldn't say."

"But you know," Bilbo said.

He meant it as a statement, but Gandalf answered it as a question. "Now why would I know a thing such as that, Master Hobbit? Do you think I have so much free time on my hands as to delve into every particular of every dwarf? Why don't you ask them if you wish to know?"

Bilbo made a face. "As though I've not tried? It seems like every time I do, something comes up, or they deliberately misunderstand me!"

"It sounds like you haven't tried overly hard," Gandalf said.

Bilbo grumbled beneath his breath. "As though you have any better luck against the stubbornness of dwarves."

The wizard chuckled quietly. "Now now, my dear Bilbo, if the stubbornness of a Took and a Baggins can be so easily subdued by the will of a few dwarves, I know there is something amiss in the world."

Bilbo shot a suspicious glance up into Gandalf's shadowed face. "You're putting me off, aren't you?"

"I am sure I don't know what you mean."

"It was a perfectly reasonable sentence. Even a wizard could understand it." Bilbo sniffed. "Dratted unknowable wizards, hiding behind their hand tricks to get out of answering a simple question."

Gandalf huffed indignantly, but Bilbo heard the laugh in his voice. "I am no conjurer of cheap tricks! I am trying to help you, Bilbo Baggins, if you would use your head and not just your ears to listen."

Bilbo's lips twitched, but he fell silent until Gandalf's ruffled feathers settled back into place. He settled himself too, wiggling around until he was pressed more comfortably into Gandalf's side. If Gandalf would not protest then Bilbo had every intention of passing the entire night right there, where the folds of the wizard's grey robe fell over him like a warm blanket.

Still, he could not help saying, before he drifted off, "I'm sure that's what you wizards always say when someone asks you a simple question you don't care to answer."

Gandalf's quiet chuckles followed him into sleep.

~*~

Balin walked beside him the next day though they spoke little between them. It wasn't until they were far to the back of the line that Balin rested a hand on Bilbo's arm, stopping him in his tracks.

When Bilbo glanced questioningly at him Balin smiled benignly, beard twitching. "May I, Bilbo?" He waved to Bilbo's foot.

Bilbo stared bemusedly. "If you like?"

Balin's beard twitched into a full smile. "It's not a hobbit custom at all, is it?"

"What? Gracious, no!" Bilbo stared more, shook his head, moved to speak and quickly closed his mouth with an audible click. "Do you mean to say," he finally ventured. "You do mean the matter of the toes, don't you? Only I would not wish to misunderstand."

"That's exactly so, the matter of stepping on toes. Though it appears we've had a great misunderstanding already, I think we should do it, as the tradition it has turned into these last weeks." Balin chuckled. "It would not be right for you to miss collecting the whole set." And then he lightly tapped his booted toe against Bilbo's bare ones.

Bilbo wiggled them, the long, yellow grass tickling between his toes. "I've not got the whole set regardless, Balin. I do believe I'm missing one as yet." He shook his head again and said more to himself, "You are a strange lot."

"Ah well, for all his outspoken manner, he is in truth quite reserved in many regards," Balin hummed. "I'm afraid you may have to take that step yourself."

Bilbo thought perhaps that was exactly the thing to do. And perhaps it would be alright, now that Thorin did not glare at him like Bilbo was the worst sort vegetable on his plate. Bilbo really wished to be friends with the dwarf king, and he thought perhaps he had the chance now.

"Stepping on toes is not in any way an act of friendship in the Shire?" Balin asked, as if to verify he had it absolutely correct.

The horrified look Bilbo gave him seemed answer enough, for Balin laughed, but Bilbo spoke anyway. "No," he said as firmly as he could. "No! That is… no. It's quite the opposite, truth be told. I thought—well, I thought it was a dwarf custom, Balin! Is it not?"

Balin gave him a look that perfectly asked if Bilbo were mad. "What in Mahal's name would we step on people's boots for?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Why did you think hobbits would have such a need?" Bilbo asked, half hysterical with disbelief. Their voices—and their absence from the group—were beginning to draw attention, and the others near the end of the line were slowing and turning to look what was the matter.

Balin shook his head. "Hobbits are keen on their feet, my friend. We thought it something of that ilk." He stroked his beard thoughtfully and looked at his kin ahead of them. "Well, that and there were some few misunderstandings."

"Misunderstandings?" Bilbo asked, wracking his memories for anything he could have done at the start to encourage such misinformation.

"Ah, Ori heard something of a hobbit expression 'stepping on one's toes' and perhaps misconstrued its meaning." Balin was certainly smiling beneath his snow-white beard again. "He understood it as an expression of kinship in the Shire."

Bilbo made a sort of wheezy noise at the back of his throat. "No-o, it's not… Someone stepping on your toes means they're intruding on your space in some fashion, usually in regard to one's work or interests."

"Ah." Balin's eyes were dancing with merriment. "So when Bombur claimed the expression to be one of a romantic nature and was associated with the exchange of recipes, that was another misunderstanding?"

"No." Bilbo moaned and rubbed his face. "Eru, the recipes. He'd said he knew it was a miscommunication!"

"I see it was," Balin hummed. "And then there were the lads."

Bilbo groaned. "I'm not sure I care to know, Balin."

The dwarrow cleared his throat. "It is perhaps best you don't."

Bilbo looked down to stare at the grass, unable to look Balin in the face anymore. Then a horrible thought dawned on him and he looked back up just as quickly. "Fíli—Kíli—they weren't… They're not interested—romantically… are they? I'm fifty, Balin! They're so young!"

Balin chuckled and patted Bilbo's arm. "Do not fear. Neither of them are, shall we say, pining for your affections, for all their foolish behavior some weeks ago. They'd been playing one of their schemes again, to spectacularly poor results. We shall leave it at that to preserve our sanity. They are, however, well into their seventies, my friend. Still quite young by dwarf standards, but more than twenty years apiece on you."

"I know," Bilbo said. "And I know seventy for a dwarf is near twenty-five for a hobbit. I am well past my tween years, Balin, nor am I looking to revisit them."

Balin nodded in understanding. "The young are often more trouble than they are worth in such affairs of the heart. Come, I think we should begin walking again before the rest fly back to demand if we've injured ourselves in our dotage."

Bilbo huffed a small laugh. "I don't think even Kíli would dare accuse you of being in your dotage, Balin." He hesitated a second as they began strolling, slowly, forward again. "Is there anything else I ought to know about the, er, toe misunderstanding?"

Balin hummed thoughtfully. "Nori was being equally foolish as the lads. I believe he somehow overheard your explaining you found our stepping on your toes uncomfortable." He slanted a questioning glance to Bilbo, but Bilbo was in no hurry to share that he'd been complaining to an elf, and that was the only time he'd ever spoken about the dwarves' distressing behavior out loud. He wondered how Nori had ever overheard his talks with Erestor.

Balin went on, "Nori wished to see how far you would allow your discomfort to go before you gave in and told us to, how did he put it, 'sod off with our rude mannerisms.'"

"Knowing Nori, he'd probably hoped to wager on it," Bilbo said, and felt his ears go warm recollecting Nori's kiss. Rude mannerisms, indeed! Once more, Bilbo was positive there was more to it that Balin was not saying. But like with Fíli and Kíli, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the full truth of it, so he let it slide.

"A likely assumption." Sounding apologetic, Balin added, "We should have asked you instead of testing the theory and saved everyone growing pains… but I hope you know all we have done is because we esteem you so highly, Mister Baggins."

"It's Bilbo. Let's not go back to this 'Mister Baggins' nonsense, please, Balin." Bilbo smiled at him. "And I don't know about this 'esteem highly' line you're trying, or certainly not before the trouble with the pale orc, but I find there is no need for apologies. I think it is not easy, trying to tiptoe around two different cultures. I know there have been more than a few occasions I have made a blunder, or should have liked to learn more."

"If you would know more, simply ask." Balin patted his shoulder. "I admit there are some things we cannot discuss, and we've not been as forthright as we should have been, but I—and others—will endeavor to teach you what you wish to know, Bilbo."

Bilbo gave him a startled, pleased look. "I would like that."

They walked in silence again as they caught up with the rest of the Company, and as they went Bilbo thought back over the many weeks since Ori first stepped on his foot with such solemn intent. He catalogued every incident and every dwarf's words.

He started giggling to himself.

And then laughing.

He could feel Balin slanting him an amused look, likely thinking similar thoughts.

It was just so ridiculous. They'd all been treading on his toes because they thought he wanted them to. Some had thought it was flirting, and Eru, if a courting hobbit tried that in the Shire, Bilbo could imagine how quickly he or she would get thrown over.

Thrown over. There was another term the dwarves could so easily misconstrue and suddenly there would be hobbits flying through the air as a matter of course.

Bilbo nearly doubled over in his laughter.

He couldn't stop. He couldn't if his life depended on it. Tears gathered in his eyes only to start rolling down his cheeks. Then he did double over, clutching his stomach as his belly muscles worked overtime. Distantly he heard voices rising in confusion and concern, and beside him Balin's chortles turned into deep, joyful guffaws.

Finally—blessedly, as Bilbo couldn't take much more, his belly ached so, and it was getting hard to pull in gasps of air—his laughter began winding down and he wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

Thorin's voice rose above the rest, "Balin, what is wrong with Master Baggins?"

Balin let out another laugh, which only caused Bilbo to let out another fit of giggles. They exchanged amused glances and both started off again.

Thorin looked less than impressed with either of them Bilbo saw in the brief flash before he bent in half and covered his face and tried desperately to get himself under control. The entire Company was surrounding the pair of them by this point, all wearing mixed expressions of amusement and bafflement and worry. Gandalf was no doubt twinkling somewhere in the background.

And oh, when Bilbo got himself under control they were going to have such an interesting explanation ahead of them.

The thought only set Bilbo off all over again.

~*~

The explanations went over remarkably well, and they'd all had a good laugh over it, much to Bilbo's relief. Days later, settled in at Beorn's, the entire Company still cracked the occasional joke about toes and friendship.

All that was left unresolved was Thorin, and where Bilbo stood with him. Since the apology on the Carrock they'd grown closer, more comfortable with each other, but Thorin had never stepped on his foot, or otherwise offered an official gesture of friendship as the others had. Bilbo wondered why. He had to know.

It was the fields of Beorn's flowers that inspired Bilbo to shore up his courage and make the final step.

He was admiring all the varieties of plants and flowers Beorn grew when a patch of wallflowers caught his eye. It was a fitting flower for Thorin and him, he'd realized with amusement, and he'd plucked few of them before he knew what he was doing. And then he couldn't stop noticing other flowers that were equally suitable, but in a different manner.

So Bilbo found himself picking a flower here and a sprig there—wildly wondering if this was how Kíli had felt in Elrond's gardens, seeing every flower as a possibility and not wanting to miss any—and before he knew it, he had an armful. It was absurd. Those of the Company that spotted him shot him concerned little glances out of the corners of their eyes and he wasn't sure he could blame them. He wasn't some fainting lad or lass approaching their first love. He was a hobbit and a burglar and a Baggins, approaching a dwarf and king and… a friend, Bilbo hoped. So Bilbo began pruning out the excess.

Somehow he still ended up with a sizeable bundle. One Thorin in all likelihood wouldn't even appreciate, being both a dwarf and one of the few in the Company that had eschewed the discussion of flowers the handful of times it came up after his and Kíli's garden stroll.

Yet… perhaps it would finally shatter any ice remaining between them. Not that they were doing poorly; indeed, Thorin was almost worrisomely dedicated to Bilbo, seeking him out for conversation at least once a day, sitting beside him at meals, watching over his newly begun sword lessons with Dwalin (an event Bilbo did not care to think on). It would be unnerving but for the way they both fell into such companionable conversation now that Thorin did not feel the need to glower at him and so Bilbo did not feel the urge to stammer. Things were going along quite pleasantly.

And still. Flowers couldn't hurt, Bilbo was sure.

Then he'd found Thorin, buried in his cherished solitude just beyond the maze of Beorn's beehives, near the field of flowers behind the cabin. And there Bilbo was, standing before Thorin with an absurd bouquet of flowers, struck dumb by the sheer idiocy of his plan while Thorin stared at him with growing puzzlement, if the slow frown was anything to go by. (And hadn't Bilbo found that quite a shock; half of Thorin's looks of anger were actually looks of confusion, once Bilbo knew what to look for. Thorin did not do well with ignorance and so usually scowled at it.)

"Is something the matter, Bilbo?" Thorin stood from where he'd claimed a chopped log as a seat, striding the handful of yards to stand in front of him. His eyes flicked over Bilbo's shoulder to the house and back, and Bilbo realized he'd put Thorin on alert.

"Oh, bother." Bilbo grimaced. "No, everything is fine. I was only, ah, collecting flowers."

Thorin glanced down at the bouquet, confusion returning, but at least softening along the edges. "What for?"

"Oh, you know," he waved vaguely and felt the slow rise of heat build in his ears. "What are you doing so far out of the way of things? Óin isn't on another rampage about your injuries, surely?" He asked it in a tone that said 'if you're meant to have your bandages changed, you will go do it,' but Thorin seemed to miss that part.

"What do they mean?" he asked, nodding briskly to the flowers and pressing a hand to Bilbo's back to propel him toward the stack of chopped logs. Apparently he'd also missed the part where Bilbo was trying to change the subject.

When "a variety of things" didn't go over well—Thorin's eyebrow quirked up and amusement curled at the corners of his mouth and he just stared at Bilbo until Bilbo caved—he resigned himself to making a fool of himself and cleared his throat.

"The wallflowers, the orange ones, mean fidelity in adversity," Bilbo started, feeling a little wrong-footed, because surely the reason he would pick suck a flower was obvious, and he wasn't at all sure he wanted to put his feelings on display when Thorin put little stock in such things. "And the purple tail poking up next to it is heather, protection. Some yellow sprigs of fennel for strength."

Thorin came to a stop, apparently abandoning his attempt to usher Bilbo toward a log seat. Bilbo turned to look at him with the best innocent expression he could muster. So much for the courage the dwarves so recently lauded him for.

"And the purple beside it?" was all Thorin asked, but he was staring at Bilbo as though trying to fathom some great puzzle.

"Ah, buttons of honesty," Bilbo said, feeling like he'd failed the honesty part spectacularly.

Thorin made a vaguely aggravated noise, but he didn't stop in his inspection of Bilbo. "Is it a picture of you or me?"

"A bit of both," he said, feeling his ears heat up. He'd really hoped Thorin wouldn't catch him out on that at least, that it was both of them; he hadn't thought Thorin would remember the discussion on flowers and courting so long ago in Rivendell. "Our… our friendship, as it were."

"Then what do the rest mean?"

"Oh. Right." He looked down at the bouquet and gently stroked a finger over one of the three pale blue flowers that startlingly matched Thorin's eyes. "These with the web-like fronds are called love-in-a-mist." He smiled up at Thorin. "They signify perplexity."

Thorin snorted with laughter. "Fitting indeed. And the lilac?" Bilbo felt his eyebrows arch up. "I do have some knowledge of plants, Master Hobbit," he said disdainfully, and apparently decided to ignore the way Bilbo's eyebrows lifted higher.

"Right, so. Lilac is early love… or affection," he said. So he fudged that last bit. He somehow couldn't bring himself to confess feelings of love to Thorin's observant gaze. The dwarf was unnerving at the best of times, never mind what it would be like to know Thorin knew Bilbo had feelings. Well, more feelings than the normal way of things. Obviously Bilbo had feelings in the general sense, but that was neither here nor there.

"And the mistletoe. I'd not have thought to find it in summer," Thorin added, voice revealing nothing of his thoughts over the lilac. Perhaps Bilbo had got away with it.

He glanced down in confusion at the deceivingly delicate dots of white peppered through the otherwise colorful bouquet. "Well, yes, mistletoe is harder to spot when trees are in bloom themselves, but the signs are there when you're looking for it." He beamed at Thorin. "That was especially for you, of course."

Thorin's eyebrows shot up. He looked half disbelieving and half pleased. "Was it indeed? You are surprisingly bold, Bilbo. Though I suppose I should have come to expect as much from you."

Bilbo frowned at him. "What does surmounting obstacles have to do with boldness—" he held up his hand, "Besides the obvious sordid affair with that orc."

Now Thorin was frowning. "What are you speaking of?"

"Mistletoe?" Bilbo hazarded. "To overcome all obstacles? That's what it means, of course, because it is such a stubborn plant."

"Ah." Thorin's confusion washed away from his face, leaving a strangely curious expression in its place. "Do hobbits not then use it in Yule celebrations?"

Bilbo shook his head. "Goodness no. We occasionally use it for healing, but only when other options run dry. Dwarves use plants to celebrate Yule? Whatever for?"

An almost predatory gleam came into Thorin's eyes, and Bilbo must have had some reserves of courage left over somewhere, because he didn't step back though his instincts told him that would certainly be the appropriate response to such a look.

"Traditionally we tie small bundles together with ribbon and hang it from beams." Thorin stepped closer, snapping off a small sprig of mistletoe and twirling it between his fingers thoughtfully. He caught Bilbo's eyes and smiled. "When two step beneath it together, they exchange a kiss." Thorin held the small stem above them with one hand, the other lightly cupping Bilbo's cheek as he leaned down and lightly pressed a kiss to Bilbo's lips. "Like so," he breathed, mouth still close enough to trace another whisper-kiss against Bilbo's own at the words.

"Oh," Bilbo said, suddenly feeling quite dazed, breath puffing out between them. "That's… a nice tradition." He felt the trace of Thorin's smile, the brush of chapped lips against his own, the light scrape of Thorin's beard, and a shiver involuntarily swept down his spine. He stepped back slowly, and that felt almost involuntary too, but he needed space. Space was a good thing, a thing that would let him think for a moment.

Thorin only let him move back so far. He caught Bilbo's hand, the one with the—now slightly crushed—bouquet clutched in his fingers. "I believe you've forgotten a flower," he said, eyeing the violently bright pink of the geraniums. He was still twirling the mistletoe in his other hand.

"Oak leaf geraniums," Bilbo's mouth supplied without any input from his mind. "True friendship."

"Hmm, the first that is ill-fitting," he said, giving Bilbo a hooded look.

After that kiss, yes, that seemed about right, Bilbo thought. "I suppose—wait, but we are friends," he protested. They might be something more, now—suddenly new worlds of possibility were blooming in Bilbo's mind—but they were still friends, weren't they?

In answer Thorin strode away, back to the scattered pieces of chopped logs Bilbo had found him sitting on not fifteen minutes ago. Eru, how much his outlook on life kept changing in the span of seconds. He watched as Thorin stooped down and picked something up Bilbo could not make out.

When the dwarf king returned he saw it was a flower. Thorin had picked Bilbo a flower, a clove. Bilbo stared at him, not even caring his jaw was nearly dragging on the ground. "You can't know what that means."

There was Thorin's inscrutable look and arched eyebrow, and Eru help him but Bilbo was starting to decipher those looks quite well. He looked positively amused and exasperated and uncertain.

Thorin felt uncertain.

Bilbo was sure the world was spinning around him.

Warm, calloused hands so much larger than Bilbo's own caught him around his shoulders. "Bilbo?" He sounded worried.

"I'm fine," Bilbo said, even though his voice must have sounded faint and the world was most certainly spinning, and only he and Thorin were still, standing at the center of it all. "When did you ever listen to me?" he asked, more than a little baffled, for Thorin must have been listening in on at least of one of Bilbo's explanations about flowers and their meanings. Clove; I have loved you and you have not known it.

"You aren't." Thorin was frowning again and trying to pull Bilbo toward the logs. "Come sit down."

But Bilbo dug his heels in. How many other times had Thorin been paying attention to him and he hadn't realized? How much about Thorin hadn't he realized? "Thorin," he said, sounding surprisingly calm to his own ears.

If Thorin's wary expression was anything to judge by he found that rather surprising too. "Yes?"

"You," Bilbo started, and then he had to pause because his mind would not process the words he planned on saying. He looked at the flowers in his hands, and then the clove now held so carefully in Thorin's hand at his shoulder, pressed against the mistletoe he still held."You've … been in love with me." His gaze flicked up to Thorin's face to catch the dwarf nod, that familiar frown etched into his mouth which soothed some of the disbelief aching in Bilbo's chest. "So you glared and shouted at me and stomped around like a clot for weeks?" And then it occurred to him. "How long have you...?"

Thorin looked embarrassed. His fingers dug into Bilbo's shoulders. "I did not… react well," he admitted.

"To loving me," he said, not sure if he should be amused or annoyed at that revelation.

The look Thorin gave him claimed Bilbo was being purposely obtuse. "At the way everyone touches you so freely. And you let them." The last line was grumbled with such sulking resentment Bilbo found himself biting his lip in a desperate effort not to laugh in Thorin's face.

"The toes thing," he said, failing to hide his amusement.

"And Nori," Thorin said, tone sharp. For all that, he edged into Bilbo's space another inch even though they were already no more than a foot apart and sharing every breath. "My idiot nephews. You're always… flirting with Bombur and Bofur." He said 'flirting' like a dirty word.

Bilbo couldn't help it, he started laughing, leaning his forehead against Thorin's chest as if that might keep him from noticing even the littlest bit. Thorin tensed against him.

"I was not flirting," he said a touch breathlessly, when he calmed down enough to rein his laughter in. He looked up at the dwarf, who was still frowning unhappily. "And I explained stepping on toes has nothing at all to do with friendship days ago."

When all Thorin did was make a displeased little 'hmph' noise, Bilbo huffed another small laugh. "If you wanted to flirt with me, maybe you should have tried talking to me instead of snapping and growling all the time." He smiled wickedly when a terrible idea came into his head and he shifted closer to Thorin, maneuvering carefully until he had one foot solidly on Thorin's boot.

But Thorin did not seem to notice. Typical oblivious dwarf, Bilbo thought, with more affection than he cared to admit, and shuffled around again. This time Thorin noticed, but Bilbo suspected it had to do with the way Bilbo suddenly gained three inches in height and not with his weight on Thorin's boot-clad feet.

Thorin's frown melted into a bemused smile. He glanced down between what little space there was between them. "Are you standing on my feet?"

"I am," he said, as solemnly as he could manage, which was not very. "I heard dwarves consider it some form of courtship."

His lips twitched into a small smile. "And I have heard hobbits consider it a most offensive invasion of space."

Bilbo sniffed disdainfully, fighting back the smile that wished to plaster itself across his face. "I, sir, am a Baggins. I am not rude, thank-you."

By that point Thorin's smile was developing into a full-on grin, though it turned wry at the edges. His arms slid around Bilbo's back, holding him in place against his chest. "You're not rude, no, but shamelessly forward."

"Oh!" Bilbo said indignantly. "See if I teach you proper hobbit flirting after that remark. And I'd begun looking forward to showing you how to play footsy." It'd be a trick, with Thorin's dwarvish tendency to wear ten layers of clothing, but Bilbo was nothing if not persistent. He liked a good challenge; his feelings for Thorin were evidence enough of that.

The smirk was washed away with a look of curiosity. "Footsy?" And then a moment later, "Are you saying hobbits flirt with their feet?" The frown was beginning to form again, creasing Thorin's brow.

"Ye-es?" Bilbo said, frowning in his own confusion. He tried to step back, but Thorin tightened his arms, pulling Bilbo more firmly against him.

"I'm going to kill every last one of them," he muttered, shooting a dark look at Beorn's cabin over Bilbo's shoulder. Then he turned his glare down on Bilbo. "Why didn't you stop them?"

Bilbo stared up at him, jaw dropped in surprise. "…are we honestly going down this road? Again? I told you days ago, I thought it was a dwarf thing. I wasn't going to be rude!"

"You've been flirting with every one of the Company," Thorin snapped.

Bilbo scowled at him and grabbed two handfuls of Thorin's hair, dragging him down into a kiss. Thorin made a startled sound, but he shifted his weight and picked Bilbo up until his toes weren't even touching Thorin's boots anymore, never mind the ground. The bouquet fell from between them, forgotten, and Bilbo scrambled for better purchase despite Thorin's firm grip—and Bilbo's confidence Thorin would never drop him—wrapping his arms around his neck as the kiss deepened.

When they parted, Thorin still holding him as though he refused to let Bilbo go, Bilbo simply rested his forehead against Thorin's own. "The only dwarf I want to flirt with is you, is that clear?"

Thorin blew out a breath which gusted across Bilbo's cheeks. "I will have a word with the others. No more of this foot nonsense."

Bilbo rolled his eyes. "I think they understood that days ago."

"I will be sure."

"Oh, honestly. Fine. Do as you like, never mind that I've not been flirting with every dwarf under the sun. Ridiculous dwarf. Now put me down. We can find some lunch and discuss what flirting actually is until you get a firm grasp of it."

Thorin didn't put him down, but carried him over to the logs and sat them both down. He supposed they would have to have a talk about reasonable behavior and boundaries and the importance of lunch along with the flirting, but that could wait. Bilbo was awfully comfortable after all, with his dwarf king as a chair.

~*~FIN~*~