AN: Written for a fascinating kink meme fill, which asked for the following:

On a dark and stormy night, Bilbo Baggins happily rests in Bag End. Then he hears something, a crying mewl, almost a growl. When he goes to check, he is more than surprised by the sight of a pale little baby orc, looking tired, hungry, and abused.

He takes in the child and raises him alone. The Hobbits are scared of course, until little Bolg turns into Hobbitons greatest protector, fighting off bandits and wolves with his superior muscle and skill. He is very protective of his new home, and his new father, and tries to forget the pain and abuse he received at the hands of Azog.

When the Dwarves come knocking, Bolg Baggins refuses to leave his father's side, and ends up facing his past.

+10 if Bolg and Thorin end up getting along in a shared distaste of Elves
+100 if it ends up being Bilbo protecting Bolg from Azog at the cliff.
+1000 if Ori is the first to befriend him and knits him some lovely things.

warning for: child abuse/abandonment

It was September the 22nd, and Bilbo Baggins was thirty-four years old. He was also entirely alone.

To be perfectly honest, it was a welcome solitude, even if it marked his very first birthday without kith and kin carousing in the garden. His very first birthday without the clap of his father's hand over his shoulder and the traditional firm embrace, with Bungo muttering hoarse assurances of how proud he was, how Bilbo was a good lad, grown into such a fine young hobbit.

It was his second birthday, in living memory, without the mouth-watering scent of his mother's carrot cake wafting through Bag End— she had already been too ill with the Wasting when he had come of age the year before. Bilbo had baked his own cake that year— a simple spongy thing with clotted cream and soft, late peaches— and Belladonna had managed to taste a small slice, with Bilbo sitting carefully on the bed beside her, steadying the plate, and Bungo drawn up close beside in an armchair.

Yes, the solitude was welcome, but only because it meant his wailing, weeping relatives had finally dispersed, leaving him to his own quiet mourning. His mother had passed in the spring, just after waves of bluebells had begun to blossom between the trees; his father had lingered in his grief through one wretched summer, slipping away to follow his dear wife before the balmy nights of August had given way to even a hint of autumn's chill.

That had been weeks ago, and Bilbo had just managed to oust the last of his (generally) well-meaning relations from their (generally) well-meant invasion of his smial.

It had been a strange sort of day, puttering about without any pressing matters to attend, or any relations to shoo out of his cupboards. There was an understanding that Bilbo was not holding any sort of celebration for his birthday, nor would he be delivering any gifts, and sod the whispers about it. It had, thankfully, been a perfectly quiet morning and afternoon, save for the heavy rain pattering against his windows, and Bilbo had enjoyed it as much as he was likely able. That is to say, he had eaten sparingly, plucking bland morsels from the larder as his churning stomach allowed, smoked and read, and perhaps shed a few tears. There was a lingering ache beneath his ribs, but also a smile on his lips; though he missed them both, fiercely, he would not lose himself in sadness.

And that was how Bilbo Baggins found himself tossing together a pot of soup for his supper, simmering onion and mushrooms in a creamy base, perfect for chasing off the dampness trying to creep into his bones. It was one of his mother's recipes, spiced with the sweetness of nutmeg strongly enough to peg it as classically Tookish, and Bilbo felt the clenched feeling around his heart ease a wee bit as the smells became more familiar. It didn't hurt, as he'd feared it might, to call up her memory this way.

Perhaps tomorrow he would search through her cookbooks and try his hand at a carrot cake.

Bilbo was sorting through the bundles of herbs drying over the hearth, pulling down a few curling sprigs of parsley, when he heard the first thready, muffled wail. He thought for an instant to blame the wind, but he had lived in Bag End his entire life, and knew every creak and groan of wood and earth, in every season. This noise was not the wind, even on such a blustery, stormy night.

His second guess at the origin of the pitiful caterwauling was the Miller's fat brown tabby, the poor thing likely caught out in the downpour, and Bilbo set his herbs on the table with a sigh. Having a sopping cat trailing muck and wet fur all over his home wasn't the most appealing notion, but he could hardly leave the wretch out in such a storm. The soup would be fine on its own, for a short while; after giving it a final stir, Bilbo padded out of the kitchen, heading down the west hall when it became apparent that the miserable sounds were coming from the backdoor.

Wailing and scratching, Bilbo discovered as he drew closer, though the latter was not nearly as desperate as he'd half-expected. It was almost as though the cat was uncertain, which was enough to give Bilbo a moment's pause; surely natural instinct and pounding rain should have had the beast trying to claw its way through the wood. Perhaps it was hurt, and wouldn't that be a mess.

"I'm coming, puss," Bilbo said, worry for the creature's safety overriding any concerns about tetchy cats and their foul tempers when injured. He had some cream left from his soup, if he needed to coax the beast—

Bilbo swung the door open without further dithering, only to freeze at the sight that greeted him on the other side. The huddled little body curled under the meagre protection offered by the arch of the roof was certainly no tabby, though it was soaking wet and just as wretched looking as Bilbo had imagined the cat might be.

The creature was scarcely bigger than a faunt, wrapped haphazardly in dark, tattered rags, with bare skin pale as milk where it wasn't smeared with filth or blotched with deep, angry welts and bruises. And those painful looking marks were abundant, from what Bilbo could see in the light spilling from inside his smial, patterned across the shivering creature like the stripes of the tabby he had expected to find.

He only had a moment to observe all this, however, before the creature's head snapped up, and Bilbo was pinned by a pair of eyes as wide and white as twin moons, staring at him from beneath matted hanks of fair, rain-slicked hair. His heart stuttered in his chest, shocked, but before he could do a single thing, the creature was hissing, scrambling back into the garden with its odd, flat features drawn tight with absolute terror.

"Oh," Bilbo said, feeling the world swim around him dangerously, but he managed to get hold of himself before the dizziness could send him into a faint. He should have slammed the door, should have made his own retreat as quickly as that creature had done, but he braced an arm on the doorframe instead, breathing hard and trying desperately to make sense of what had just happened.

That... creature. He had never seen such a thing, vaguely hobbit-shaped with a proper assortment of arms and legs, but so strange in all other ways, even observed so briefly. And so very frightened of him.

Swallowing thickly, Bilbo blinked, squinting out into the stormy evening. Heavy clouds meant the sky was hanging heavy and dark, like a shroud of velvet, but the creature was nearly luminous, even covered with mud— Bilbo could see it, curled tight as a weevil and trying unsuccessfully to hide amongst the leafy camouflage of his beets and turnips. Its eyes gleamed, narrowed to slits, and Bilbo felt his Tookish side swell up from the depths of him, like a pot boiling over and drowning all his good Baggins sense.

"Good evening, friend," he called out gently, and waggled his fingers. The creature did not twitch, as far as he could tell. "That is, I mean, if you are a friend, then please, welcome. It's not fit to be out tonight... you're welcome to share my hearth, a bite of supper, perhaps? Are you hungry?" There was no answer, just those glimmering eyes watching him warily, and Bilbo ran a hand over his face, fully aware that he was going mad.

"Right then." With some effort, he shored up his trembling nerves. "I'm off to fetch you some soup. Nice hot soup, hm?"

Leaving his door opened wide, heedless of what little rain was managing to sprinkle inside, Bilbo made haste back to the kitchen, ignoring the minor tremors that shook his hands as he ladled out two bowls, heaping one with an especially ample portion, and set them on a tray, piling on a plate of scones, some cold ham, and a few red apples. It was something of a strange meal, but he didn't dare spare the time to sort through the larder properly; he didn't imagine the creature would linger long, if it hadn't already fled the moment he ran off.

Tottering back down the hallway, Bilbo ignored any silly concerns about propriety, setting the tray on the floor just inside the threshold, before lowering himself to sit cross-legged nearby. The wind was fierce, but blowing away from the doorway, and the evening air was cool.

Taking up the smaller bowl, as well as a scone, Bilbo was oddly relieved to see the creature exactly where he had left it, hunkered down in his garden.

He waved his bowl at the creature, then motioned toward the heaping tray. "I've brought you some supper, if you like."

There was no response, not that Bilbo had expected one, so he dug his spoon into his bowl and took a mouthful with an exaggerated noise of pleasure. Well, only partially exaggerated— it was delicious soup, even without the parsley.

"Mm, yum. Yum, yum, yum." He wasn't even certain the creature could understand him or not, but Bilbo was willing to take the chance of embarrassing himself if it meant coaxing the pitiful thing out of the rain. Pointing at the tray again, Bilbo then waved towards the creature and called up his most good-natured smile. "Soup for you. Food, for you. Yum yum."

Eating slowly, Bilbo shifted his gaze down to his bowl, listening instead of watching. Eventually, just as he was beginning to blot up the last dregs of soup with his scone, there was a skittering sound on the garden path, then the clack of dishes from the tray. A furtive glance found the creature hunched outside, cowering against the wall as it greedily shovelled handfuls of cooling soup into its mouth, creamy stock mingling with the mud caked on its long fingers. It was on the tip of Bilbo's tongue to suggest a spoon, but he bit that automatic, ridiculous chiding back; the oddity of the situation had muddled his mind to foolishness, obviously.

The bowl was dropped with a clatter, once the creature had licked every hint of soup from its depths, and Bilbo was glad he'd had the presence of mind to use the thicker crockery, rather than his mother's fine pottery.

The scones were the next casualty, four snatched from the plate in a single swipe, and Bilbo dared to let his gaze linger on the crumbs soon falling around hairless toes. Ten toes, leading into smallish feet for the creature's size (at least, smallish by hobbit standards), filthy with mire and peppered with oozing cuts. This close, Bilbo could see more wounds here and there, bleeding sluggishly— the blood was tar-black, and not just from the dimness of the light.

Goblins had black blood; Bilbo had read that in his books, but he also remembered the sight, as much as he wished not to. He had been a tween when the Fell Winter sunk its claws into the Shire, and creatures from darkest nightmares had torn across the frozen Brandywine. He remembered hiding in the storeroom with his parents, staying silent and small as screams and snarls had echoed beyond their barred doors. He would never forget the splatters of black and crimson across the snow when they had finally dared to creep from the smial, and the ichor dripping from the swords of the Rangers, black as ink.

This creature didn't precisely look like a goblin— it was a battered little thing, hardly more than skin and bones under all that mud, and it hadn't yet tried to tear him limb from limb. Still, the blood made Bilbo's pulse flutter, a burst of nervous tension in the midst of bold madness.

Very cautiously, Bilbo set his own bowl aside and began rising to his feet, not reacting when his movements earned another hiss and a scuttle away, though not nearly as far as the creature had first retreated.

"I'll fetch some more," he said, his tone soft and soothing, and backed slowly down the hallway. The creature didn't follow, and Bilbo braced himself against the wall the moment he'd turned the corner, out of sight of the door. He took a few great gulps of air, blinking away the spots dancing around the edges of his vision, and thought of the creature's fearful expression. There hadn't been a hint of malice there, just terror; a goblin afraid of him, for goodness sake.

A baby goblin? Was there even such a thing, or did they spring up from the earth fully formed and vicious? It was quite small, quite soft looking compared to the dreadful monsters he recalled, and quite miserable out in the storm.

"Cake," Bilbo said suddenly, startling himself, then took one final deep breath and strode off towards the pantry. He had two full seed cakes wrapped in linen, freshly baked earlier that week, as well as a dozen small mince pies in a basket; he gathered up the lot, foregoing butter in favour of not bringing a knife within reach of the strange creature, and headed back to the door.

The tray was empty of every scrap of food when he returned, not even an apple core remaining, and Bilbo noticed that his own bowl had also been licked clean. The creature was crouched by the door, staring at him with hawk-like intensity, and Bilbo made a point of taking one of the pies for himself before setting the basket and the cakes down next to the tray, then scooting back a step and folding himself down to sit.

The creature was dragging the basket outside before Bilbo's bum even touched the floor, and the pies met a similar fate as the scones: utterly destroyed in an obscenely short period of time, and without any attempt at table manners. Not that they were sitting at a table, but the point was the same.

"You'll make yourself ill, eating so quickly," Bilbo said, nibbling his own dessert, and the creature flinched, cowering smaller as it shoved an entire pie into its mouth. Its teeth were... rather pointed, but it wasn't as though the little creature had a maw of fangs.

When Bilbo finished his pie, he reached for one of the cakes, intending to tear a piece for himself before the goblin could inflict itself upon them. Without any warning at all, the creature darted forward to hunch over the cakes like a spider, hissing with those pointed teeth bared and eyes flashing.

It was pure instinct that had Bilbo tutting sharply rather than shrieking and scrambling away. Instinct, or perhaps lunacy.

"None of that!" He sounded far too much like his father in that moment, firm but kind, and Bilbo's heart gave a lurch. The creature stilled, its hissing fading to silence and its eyes wide as saucers, and Bilbo cleared his throat. "You may have as much as you like," he said, nodding towards the cakes. "But I'll not tolerate rude guests. Do you understand?"

The moment stretched between them, drawing taut, until the creature shrank back with a snuffling whimper, squatting on the threshold.

"Thank you." Bilbo smiled, only partly forced, and tore a small hunk from one of the loaves. Then he swept a hand over, indicated the rest, and smiled a bit brighter. "There you are; go ahead and dig in. We can share, you see?"

The creature was frowning, but if Bilbo were to hazard a guess, he would say the expression was confused rather than angry. Cautiously, one pale arm crept out toward the cakes again, and Bilbo hummed encouragingly.

Seeing someone take a huge bite directly out of the side of a seed cake was not something Bilbo had expected; even his wilder Tookish cousins, when they'd been boisterous tweens, had been wise enough to tear at a loaf with their hands before munching away. The first cake did seem to disappear a bit slower than the soup and scones had done, which seemed like progress of a sort. Before the second cake could be mauled as well, Bilbo swallowed the last bite of his own morsel, and decided to try something.

Wiping his fingers on the knee of his trousers, Bilbo pointed to his chest, taking advantage of the unwavering attention the creature had fixed upon his every move.

"Bilbo," he said, tapping his breastbone. "Bilbo. My name is Bilbo." Then he pointed to the creature, and waited.

When the creature did nothing but stare, fair brows furrowing under the stringy drape of its hair, Bilbo tried again.

"Bilbo. Bilbo." He tapped his chest, then pointed at the creature. After another moment of silence, his guest let out a low, shuddering sort of growl, and pressed its fist against its own bruised chest, rumbling out a single croaky syllable.

"Bolg," Bilbo repeated, still pointing at the creature, and was incredibly pleased when his attempt earned a shallow, jerky nod. "Bolg," he said again, feeling the coarse name on his tongue, then pointed to himself one last time. "Bilbo."

"Beel-bow," the creature growled, lip curling to bare a row of sharp teeth. There were poppy seeds stuck between them. "Beel-bow."

"Close enough, I suppose." Bilbo found himself unable to stifle his chuckling, as the reality of the situation began to sink fully into his mind. He had a baby goblin in his smial, eating seed cakes. He'd been living alone for less than a month, and he may have already lost complete control of the situation. Proper gentlehobbits, even bachelors, didn't have baby goblins 'round for tea and cakes. Goodness gracious. "Bilbo, at your service, Bolg."

"Beel-bow." The creature, Bolg, snatched up the second cake, but didn't immediately begin chomping away. Instead, he levelled Bilbo with an indecipherable sort of look, tilting his head like a bird, and a moment later, Bilbo found himself with a lapful of cake.

It wasn't the remainder of the loaf, it wasn't even half, but it was a chunk approximately the size that Bilbo had first torn off. Bolg grunted at him, a few curt noises that might have been words in some rough orcish tongue, and set about polishing off the rest of his cake with relish.

Staring at the crumbling, slightly muddy lump that Bolg had tossed at him, Bilbo sighed softly. He wasn't entirely full— Bolg had eaten most of his supper, after all— and there were worse things than eating a tasty, if slightly mangled cake. It would be rude to refuse, at this point.

"Thank you, Bolg." Scooping up the grainy clod, Bilbo inclined his head at the curious goblin creature, resigning himself to eating a smear or two of dirt for the sake of this strange, delicate accord.