Chapter Text
“Learning from history and all that gibberish?”
Gandalf nods, wondering what possessed him when he decided to invite Mrs Adamanta Took for tea in his office. Well, actually he knows what - he had a plan about a few special lectures dedicated to World War II, including speeches and Q&A featuring a few locals who had lived through those years. And apparently Mrs Took is considered an authority in the field, if for no other reason than she’s in the habit of bullying everyone whose opinion isn’t consistent with hers.
Gandalf isn’t sure that it will make for a rigorous lesson about WWII, but he may settle for challenging - for his nerves, if not for the students themselves. At least, he tries to comfort himself, Adamanta will be a wonderful example of how the spirit can thrive under duress; though Gandalf suspects that she was a formidable and definitely intimidating woman even before the war.
“I’m not sure that I will be amenable to sharing my dear memories with a thousand people at a time,” she adds - Gandalf has already learnt that she enjoys playing coy, something a little bewildering considering her most respectable age.
“Hundreds,” he corrects her blandly.
“So, imagine me before a thousand people, sacrificing my experience to their eager young minds...”
“Well, I’d say that a few students will probably keep playing with their phones...” Gandalf mutters, trying very hard not to correct her again about the number of people who will probably attend the meeting in the lecture hall, nor remark about their commitment to the subject - but one has to try to provide young people with some perspective, right? It’s the very point of teaching, and teaching history in particular.
“I shall think about it,” Adamanta declares, straightening her back and looking meaningfully at Gandalf.
“Oh, well. Thank you. So much. My utmost gratitude,” he offers, knowing that she expects to be flattered now that she has decided to participate in the project - yes, she has already done that despite her claim that she will think about it. She just doesn’t like rush decisions, though she takes them all the time - family trait, Gandalf thinks. “Two sugars?”
Tea is always a good answer to quite everything. Even Gandalf, while he stirs the drink in his cup, feels considerably better about his meeting with Mrs Took: the woman is insufferable, but she’s strong and cunning, and sometimes she reminds Gandalf of Belladonna.
“Oh, look who’s there,” Adamanta says all of sudden.
Gandalf’s study on the upper floor felt a little stifling and over-heated today, so he opened the windows looking over the school’s inner gardens to let some fresh air in. It’s September, but the air is still warm and pleasant; flowers blossom in gardens and meadows, though the leaves on the trees are already turning from green to yellow. The temperature will drop soon enough and these must be the last sunny days for this year, so most people are trying to enjoy them as much as possible - picnics, football matches, short trip in the Dales seem to be very popular now that the warm season is coming to an end.
Time is never so precious as when you’ve got little of it, Gandalf muses, for he’s the kind of old man who turns even the most mundane facts into wisdom (your teacher-complex, Bungo Baggins used to call it, and he was right like good friends often happen to be).
Adamanta has been leaning toward the open window, glancing at the gardens below. Gandalf does the same now, so he immediately spots the man working in the gardens.
Kneeling among the plants, blue gloves on his hands and his hair in a bun to keep it out the way, Thorin Durin is tending to the school gardens. He moves in and out of the shadow of the apple tree, carrying his tools around, never taking any rest.
“A truly born-florist,” Adamanta muses.
“He would probably disagree,” Gandalf suggests, though he can’t help noticing that Thorin could hardly look more comfortable than he does now, while he works alone in the sweet light of the afternoon, earth on his clothes and the sun warming his neck. “He has come a long way.”
“Young people would argue about the sun rising in the East,” Adamanta mutters, before catching up with Gandalf’s last remark. “From Scotland,” she nods. “His sister told me a little about their family history.”
Gandalf wonders how much the Durins tell of their family history nowadays. Not too much and not too frequently, he suspects; but it’s to be expected, since they’re such proud, stubborn people. They made a few friends though, and Gandalf has high hopes for the future of the Durins in Hobbiton.
For some strange reason, Hobbiton seems to be a natural haven for wanderers - Gandalf among them. It may be the landscape and the quality of the air; it may be the historic value of its rows of cottages; it may be about the people living here, but in the end people are people everywhere, for the good and for the bad. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that Gandalf’s annoyance at the narrow-minded local ways always mingles with a certain fondness for these country people, half sound and half dreamy as they are - just like one Bilbo Baggins.
Speaking of whom, Gandalf wonders how he’s doing in London. He heard from him a couple of weeks ago and Bilbo sounded quite at peace, but the call was cut short by some emergency about the tattoo parlour.
“He’s a charmer,” Adamanta says. “Thorin Durin,” she adds, as if he guessed that Gandalf’s thoughts have been straying...not that the description of Thorin as a charmer would have failed to confound Gandalf at any other time.
In truth he remembers what old Balin used to say about Thorin - Balin being his cousin and a sort of fatherly figure for him and his sister, he can be considered quite an authority on the subject. On a bad day Thorin can be as charming as an axe driven through your skull: one of those folkloristic and vivid figures of speech the Durin family is very fond of, supposedly the heritage of the long-gone times when their ancestors carried axes on their backs and terrified people for fun, raiding villages and hoarding treasures. Fortunately, Thorin prefers gardening scissors nowadays, though his frowns may still kindle terror in many a heart.
“Strong as an oak, competent, hardworking. He’s got a voice that could sing women into love,” Mrs Took goes on, unfazed. Gandalf would like to think that she’s forgotten his presence, but he fears that Adamanta remembers very well that she’s not just talking to herself. “And handsome on top of that.”
Gandalf coughs some tea onto the carpet, but he manages to restore his dignity quite soon - working with kids taught him that. The smile Adamanta flashes at him is nothing short of flirty, as if the awful woman expected Gandalf to prove that he’s no less apt than Thorin Durin to be considered a decent, handsome catch for a respectable lady like Mrs Adamanta Took.
Gandalf would rather be engaged in some perilous and hopeless quest than to Mrs Took, so he hooks a finger in the collar of his shirt and clears his throat, while he looks around to find some less dangerous topic to move on to. He ends up looking out the window, where Thorin is still crouched among the plants. But he’s no longer alone, for there’s someone crossing the gardens to approach the florist.
“Well I never!” Gandalf grunts, forgetting all about Mrs Took’s intimidating style of flirting the very moment he recognises Bilbo Baggins down there.
“You never?” Adamanta repeats, raising an eyebrow. “My dear Professor, I’ve always thought that your observation skills were greatly exaggerated, but for you to miss that...”
“I thought that they didn’t know each other,” Gandalf meekly protests, too stunned to do anything else.
“Oh my, do you really think that the son of Belladonna could be back in town without sneaking around his mother’s shop?” Adamanta sighs, and her disappointment makes Gandalf feel like a reprimanded child. “Of course they know each other! And of course told you nothing about it...now, what does this suggest?”
*
Bilbo feels a little weak at the knees. That’s ridiculous, especially considering that he has been mentally preparing himself for the meeting, hidden in the archway that opens on the gardens. Well, mostly he has been looking at Thorin for something like ten minutes, which does sound slightly creepy, but it isn’t really. It’s just that they haven’t seen each other in a while (three months, nine days, and a handful of hours Bilbo did not care to count) and Thorin looks especially striking while gardening. It makes Bilbo’s heart ache just to look at him, with his ridiculous, passionate focus on the flowers so that he never suspects Bilbo’s presence until they’re face to face, a few steps apart.
“Hello,” Bilbo says softly, as if this could be enough to wipe away that startled look on Thorin’s face.
Thorin grunts something that Bilbo is willing to consider a polite greeting, but he seems quite annoyed by being caught at work, kneeling among the plants. When Thorin hastily gets up to his feet, Bilbo realises that maybe he should have warned him of his coming, rather than popping up out of thin air.
Yes, Thorin should have had the chance to turn him down.
Bilbo squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to focus. He closes and opens his fist, then he manages a weak smile and gestures to the flowers and the plants surrounding them.
“The baby’s breath is such a delightful touch,” he comments, looking with some affection at the tiny white flowers shining in the sun like snow crystals among the grass. Then he spots a patch of salmon pink flowers a little further away. “The dahlias too! And there...lavender, isn’t it?”
Thorin nods, but keeps looking at him with some wariness. It hurts Bilbo to notice that, but he struggles to carry on this apparently one-sided conversation.
“I especially like that corner with the bellflowers and the lilies of the valley,” he points out, turning toward that side of the garden. “And the primroses that blossomed last Spring were incredible! I confess that I picked up a few of them, to keep them pressed into books. Oh, I know it’s unfashionable nowadays and you probably prefer fresh, living flowers, but I like...I like keeping things.”
Thorin’s very blue eyes narrow - Bilbo’s particular choice of flowers is not lost on him.
“Bilbo,” he says, maybe a little warningly, as if Bilbo may have stepped too far.
“Tell me what you are working on,” Bilbo replies hurriedly, because he hopes that talking about flowers will help them - or at least it could distract Thorin long enough to leave Bilbo time to rethink his strategy.
“Autumn chores,” Thorin replies at last, probably after a short debate with himself. Bilbo would like to link his arm with Thorin’s and let himself be led on a tour of the school gardens, but the look on Thorin’s face is so unwelcoming that Bilbo doesn’t dare utter a single “King of Flowers” joke.
“Cutting bushes and shrubs, tidying borders, adding a few evergreens, and seeing how the plants are faring. Pruning the roses there,” Thorin says, with a movement of his head toward the damask rose bush buzzing with bumblebees, “and creating a frame for the dahlias here - they have grown too tall to support themselves. There’re also a few sick plants I’m going to take to my greenhouse before restoring them to the gardens.”
Thorin’s voice is still guarded, but his gaze softens while he inspects the gardens with unmistakable pride and affection. Bilbo can’t help stealing looks at him while he speaks, noticing how Thorin’s skin has grown a little darker under the sun, and there’s a gleam of sweat at his temples and on his neck - Bilbo can imagine how warm the skin would feel under his hands, and how salty under his mouth.
“You know, I hated these gardens since the first time I saw them,” Bilbo suddenly says. “I was up there,” he gestures with his hand, “in Gandalf’s study, more than a year ago. I was reading my contract to teach here at the school, and maybe I had already decided, maybe I hadn’t, but I saw these gardens from the window and I thought that they were so ridiculously lovely that the gardener must be some hideous, pompous git. And then my first day of school - which was awful by the way, thank you very much - I looked at them again from one of the windows on the upper floor: the apple tree looked like a postcard drawing. I thought Gandalf was playing his cards very well, showing me pretty gardens and forbidden fruits, trapping me here to be terrified and bossed by kids, drowning in the quiet, respectable country.”
Thorin’s face is a masterpiece of confusion, displeasure, and something akin to fondness. Bilbo’s heart somersaults against his ribs, for Thorin’s frown is like coming home. He moves a little closer, but not too much, for he fears that if he doesn’t tread softly Thorin will turn away from him, and that’s not something Bilbo could endure right now.
“So...how,” how are you? Bilbo would like to know - yes, how do you feel about me making a fool of myself because I’d really like to kiss you now, but he settles for something less...intense. “How’s Dís? And the boys?”
“Still up North with our cousins,” Thorin replies, blue eyes fixed on Bilbo’s face with so much intensity that Bilbo has to keep himself from hiding behind his own hands like a child.
“Oh, your stay in Scotland was...was it all right?” Bilbo asks, feeling that his words are inadequate.
He hopes that his voice, at least, will convey to Thorin how deeply he cares about the answer.
He and Thorin had talked about it - of how Dís thought that it was about time for them to take a trip to the old places, and stay with their cousins Balin and Dwalin who still lived in Scotland. In the face of Thorin’s horrified first reaction at the very idea of getting back North, she stubbornly maintained that the kids would enjoy themselves and that they all needed some holidays.
“She says that we’ve got far enough from what happened there,” Thorin had said to Bilbo on the phone, his voice a mixture of anguish and contempt for his own fears. Bilbo had never been so remorseful about being in London as he had been then, when he had but his words to comfort Thorin.
But he kept calling Thorin for several days in a row, slowly talking his feelings out of their shell, gently walking around Thorin’s walls, divesting him of his armour until they both felt safe enough to discuss the implications of Thorin’s trip to Scotland.
It was Bilbo who convinced Thorin to abandon the idea that he could suffer some sort of relapse into his old obsessions just by visiting his cousins up North, or by taking Fíli and Kíli trekking in the mountains. And it was Bilbo that got Thorin excited about devoting some of his time there to planning and starting a small garden at his cousin Dwalin’s house, using only local plants - something that amused Dís to no end, since apparently Dwalin was forced to accept the project lest he took the wind out of Thorin’s sails, but he swore to have his revenge on this Bilbo Baggins for every damned flower that would bloom in his backyard.
Well, Ori wanted to be introduced to some charming relative of Thorin’s, didn’t he?
Unfortunately, Thorin’s agreement to Dís’s plans for the summer also meant that he and Bilbo did not get to see each other. It was already difficult with Bilbo’s plans in the way, but Thorin’s time in Scotland made it impossible for them to meet during the Summer.
We didn’t have any luck, that’s all, Bilbo repeats himself for the umpteenth time, trying not to think that Thorin could have found a way if he really wanted...but that would be unfair, because Bilbo himself met a few unforeseen circumstances that kept him from going to see Thorin in Hobbiton. For example, his car broke down. And then there were all those problems with the tattoo parlour and he just couldn’t leave Ori to deal with them all by himself. And one time the train to Derbyshire was cancelled, and...
...and we should just have met somewhere, Bilbo thinks, dread pooling in his stomach.
There were phone calls - lovely ones, most of them, though they quarrelled a few times and once Bilbo was so distressed that he hung up on Thorin, as if they were melodramatic teenagers. There were also texts, especially on Bilbo’s part (well, maybe too many texts on his part, he should have sent fewer and with a far lower character count).
In other words, they tried to keep in touch.
But Bilbo has never felt so painfully out of touch as he feels now in the school gardens, trying to guess Thorin’s thoughts and failing miserably.
“Yes, it was all right,” Thorin replies bluntly, as if he didn’t really care to talk about it with Bilbo. It’s enough for Bilbo’s spirit to sink and maybe Thorin takes pity on him, because he adds: “Balin taught Kíli to fish and he even tried to fish with his bow - well, it didn’t go well, as you may imagine,” Thorin mumbles, making a face. “While Fíli has taken it into his head to buy a motorbike with the money he could earn from some part-time job on the weekend, and Dís is furious with Dwalin, because he talked too much about when he and I were younger and rode our motorbikes up and down the mountains.”
“Oh, Fíli was obviously impressed,” Bilbo comments, smiling at the picture of a younger Thorin in his leather jacket, riding his motorbike. “He looks up to you, you know that.”
“Does he?” Thorin repeats, showing some surprise.
His lack of self-confidence in this regard is quite endearing and Bilbo can’t help going on.
“Sure. Maybe he no longer shows it as I’m sure he used to do when he was a child...but he respects and loves you. It’s always uncle said that and uncle would do this. And I think you had your part into growing him into such a thoughtful, trustworthy boy,” Bilbo says in all honesty. “Though he’s far more well-versed than you in texting, considering how many texts he sends during the school hours.”
“I told him so many times...” Thorin begins gruffly, then he caresses his beard and looks more closely at Bilbo. “I’m sorry if I didn’t answer all your texts, but...my hands...”
They are monstrously bigger in the gardening gloves, so that Bilbo chuckles - partly because of the relief he feels washing over him at the first sign that maybe it’s not all lost between him and Thorin.
“It’s ok, really,” he says, grasping Thorin’s hands with his own. “You read my texts though?”
“Several times,” Thorin replies.
The admission brings a lovely blush to his cheeks. Bilbo can’t help squeezing Thorin’s fingers through the thick gloves, but he huffs in disappointment and twitches his nose.
“Just...can we take these off?” he asks, pinching slightly at the gloves.
When Thorin nods, Bilbo peels them off of his hands and lets them fall on the ground, with a suggestive wink. Thorin barks a laugh at that, but he just hums low in his throat when Bilbo’s fingers touch his.
“How’s Frodo?” Thorin asks, eyes locked on their intertwined fingers.
“Oh, he had a lot of fun in London! I didn’t dare hope for that, but apparently he’s more adventurous than I gave him credit for,” Bilbo admits with a small smile. “We went to many plays and a few musicals. He got on well with Ori...corrected a couple of our flower designs - you should’ve seen him, the brat! He reminded me of you when he got all high and mighty about the shape of this leaf and the proportions of that flower,” he whispers, his thumb caressing Thorin’s palm in a circular, soothing motion.
Yet there’s some shadow lingering at the bottom of Thorin’s gaze.
“What?” Bilbo inquires, studying the man’s expression.
“So he liked London,” Thorin states quietly.
“Yes, he did...” Bilbo tugs gently at Thorin’s hand, and the man lets himself be dragged a little closer, until Bilbo has to crane his neck to look at this face. “But after all, I think Hobbiton is a better place to raise a kid,” he muses, trying to keep his voice level - though he can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when Thorin’s eyes grow larger.
“So you...” Thorin begins, but he’s immediately at a loss for words and he just holds Bilbo’s hand tighter.
“I told you that I’d come back,” Bilbo points out.
Because he actually did, before leaving for London with Frodo.
Ori needed his help fixing a few things about the tattoo parlour since they had agreed that Bilbo would remain a partner in the enterprise, investing in the parlour and contributing to developing new designs though not actually working there. Plus Bilbo wanted Frodo to know more about his life and his friends, so taking him to meet Ori and visit the parlour had seemed a good idea. They passed the Summer in London, visiting museums and shops, cooking together, discussing flower tattoos, and spending many afternoons exploring parks and gardens in and out London.
And you mooning over Thorin, Ori often said.
Well, Bilbo enjoyed the vacation and did appreciate the chance to settle his affairs with Ori. He even worked from time to time in the parlour, inking a few old clients of his and assisting Ori with some of his most complicated designs. Rediscovering London through Frodo’s enthusiastic eyes was fun, and there was that time when they were looking at the swans at Kensington and Frodo called him uncle instead of Bilbo. And then he did the same the day after and the day after that, so they settled for uncle and nephew, that by the way was less complicated than the something-removed cousin business.
Yet Bilbo missed Thorin throughout all those months and now it feels as if all his nostalgia has come back full force, and it’s quite foolish since there are no longer miles and miles separating them, but no more than a step and a few breaths.
“I told you that I’d come back,” Bilbo repeats, a little louder.
“You might have changed your mind,” Thorin replies.
It sounds equal parts matter-of-fact and sheepish, but there’s also an interrogative behind those words - have you changed your mind? Oh my, Bilbo thinks with some giddiness, he did miss me too.
“No,” he answers firmly, his hands slipping up Thorin’s arms - if he has to stifle a little moan at the feeling of the muscles flexing under his touch no one could really blame him...I mean, have you seen his biceps? “I prefer it here.”
“Did you think about it well enough?” Thorin grunts, apparently restraining himself from...what?
The possibilities are thrilling, but Bilbo does his best to remain focused and actually frowns a little at Thorin’s words.
“You know, someone told me that it was a very easy decision to take,” he reminds Thorin.
“Bilbo...” Thorin sighs. “It was hastily spoken. It wasn’t...”
“Hush,” Bilbo commands.
It’s very well that Thorin promptly obeys, because Bilbo can get on his tiptoes and kiss him. The feeling of Thorin’s mouth pressed to his is so lovely and long-wished-for that Bilbo forgets some of his dignity and gives a strangled moan - oh, he will deny it later, but right now he can only think of Thorin’s beard rasping against his smooth chin and the push of Thorin’s tongue between his lips.
Thorin easily turns Bilbo into a burglar at times like this, for Bilbo’s hands can’t help stealing as much as they can, fingers carding through Thorin’s hair and loosening his bun, palms brushing over his bearded jaw, thumbs running down the tendons of his neck. Thorin’s skin is a little damp, as Bilbo expected it to be; it slips under his fingertips, burning hot, and the smell of sweat and earth makes Bilbo think of being in a bed with Thorin.
It’s also a good thing that Thorin is holding him by his waist, so that Bilbo can be as overwhelmed as he wishes and doesn’t need to worry too much about keeping his balance. He can actually drown in Thorin’s arms, his own thrown around Thorin’s neck; neither does he mind when he’s hoisted up and finds himself with his back against the trunk of the apple tree, his mouth plundered and his whole body buzzing with delight, louder than the bumblebees flying over the roses.
The bark of the apple tree, scraping and rubbing at his back, seems a meaningless, far-off thing compared to Thorin’s mouth and the blue of his eyes shining through his half-closed eyelids. The sky vanishes from Bilbo’s sight behind Thorin’s head and the foliage; only the fragrance of the flowers and plants still remind Bilbo of the gardens, but mingled with the smell of Thorin’s body pressing closer and closer, till there’s not even the memory of the distance left between them. They kiss fervently, they kiss gently, they kiss until their lips feel swollen and their hearts blown up, like flowers showing their ripe golden core.
While Bilbo keeps caressing Thorin’s face in sweet amazement, Thorin tilts his head.
“I know what it means to...to renounce. Are you going to be happy here?”
He doesn’t say with me, but it’s there all the same and it makes Bilbo smile until his cheeks hurt just to think about being with Thorin. His fingertips trace the lines of Thorin’s face, ever so slowly.
“You’ll have to keep an eye on me all the time to prevent me from pouting,” Bilbo teases, half hoping that he will have another kiss for that.
Thorin blushes and snorts, and isn’t that a most endearing combination?
“Have you...have you thought about opening a tattoo parlour here in Hobbiton? So you could...”
“In Hobbiton?” Bilbo grins. “I’m not sure that the people here would feel adventurous enough for that. Except Mrs Took and maybe Gandalf...”
“I’m sure...” Thorin frowns and then his eyes look just so lovely beseeching. “You could ink me.”
For a moment the idea is very, very appealing. Thorin’s broad back would be a perfect canvas for Bilbo’s flowers - and what a garden he could draw down Thorin’s strong arms and thighs! Then Bilbo could return the favour and name every flower on Thorin’s skin, whispering its name and meaning before kissing and mouthing his way up and down Thorin’s bare body - a feast of flowers laid before him. But Bilbo remembers very well that Thorin fears needles, so the tempting dream vanishes like a puff of smoke caught by the wind.
“You can’t ask me to ink you to convince me to stay,” Bilbo points out, smiling softly.
Thorin gapes a little at that, while his mind processes what Bilbo has just said.
“Convince you? But...” he objects, cheeks flaming red and the beginning of hurt in his eyes. Bilbo has to kiss that shadow away immediately, with his hands cupping Thorin’s face and his lips seeking his. “You may,” Thorin insists between the kisses, “you may like me more with...”
“Thorin!” Bilbo heaves a sigh. He looks at Thorin gravelly. “I couldn’t possibly like you more.”
The hurt is back on Thorin’s face, and Bilbo wonders how on earth the man can be so idiotic at times. He will just have to knock some sense into his head, probably with kisses - yeah, more kisses sound like a brilliant idea. Thorin even makes to step back like a frightened fawn, but Bilbo is quicker and just catches him by his arms, and he’s already pulling Thorin back to him when he says it:
“Thorin. I love you.”
The stunned look on Thorin’s face is slightly offensive - hasn’t Bilbo done his best to suggest the same concept in a few phone calls and several texts over the last month? Ok, maybe he has never actually said those words before and so this would be a first...suddenly the novelty of them catches up with Bilbo and he blushes tomato red.
Oh, the pair of them have no control over their blood circulation!
When Thorin leans in for the next kiss, with such a reverent and fervent look upon his ridiculously handsome face that Bilbo may be undone right now, Bilbo decides it’s not the right time to point out that there’s an old woman - Mrs Took? What the... - looking at them from one of the upper windows, and giving them the thumbs-up.
Later, maybe, to get the bloom of roses to Thorin’s cheeks.