DISCLAIMER- I own nothing.

The first thing Bilbo noticed was the smell.

It was warm, like a lovely fresh baked roll, crisp and homely and most definitely not the gentle salty waters from the journey to the Undying Lands.

It smelt homey.

Like a smial.

But not just any smial.

Bilbo knew without a doubt, without even having to open his eyes, where he was. Or, most specifically when.

After all, you don't live to the ripe old record-breaking age of 133 without getting used to the aches of an ancient body. And you most definitely notice when they go missing.

He was back.

His eyes pop open at the admission he hadn't really wanted to make. It was too real that way.

The ceiling in his master bedroom is the same as ever.

His eyes, not at all sleepy from his rest, not at all blurred from the discrepancies of age, travel down the walls to the mirror against the wall before his bed.

A terribly familiar hobbit, all brown curls and smooth skin and no more than 50-odd, stares back.

Merciful Yavanna, despite the feeling in his no-longer-ancient bones that already spoke of youth, the proof is undeniable now.

He's young again.

The thought almost makes him want to roll over the side of his bed and puke whatever the hell he last ate up all over the floor of Bag-end.

But no, that most definitely wouldn't do; those floors were mahogany and in no way was he damaging them.

Anyway, he faced dragons and trolls and an angry deranged Thorin Oakensheild as well as so many other fearsome sights.

He could most definitely deal with a little smidgen of…time…travel.

Bilbo fainted.

….

A/N- I posted this….fuck...a long, long time ago on and I haven't updated it in a long time (by my standards). I haven't rewritten anything but just shifted some stuff around with some spelling and my author notes lmao. Anyway...enjoy!