Bilbo spent a great deal of his time now reorganizing and deorganizing Bag End, and restoring his lovely hole to its former splendor took time. Much like the dwarves, his absence had left his home on Bag End to fall into a touch of disrepair, but a small fraction of his gold he had received for his trouble -in addition to tokens of friendship and goodwill from the dwarves that he intended never to part with- and taken care of Bag End and Bilbo's needs.

It was becoming evidently clear to the hobbit, more and moreso each day he spent settling into his familiar old routine, that the gold he'd earned would take care of him for a long time, maybe even to the end of his lifetime if he bought from the right places, and that tickled his fancy.

Bilbo felt the gap the journey had made between him and his fellow hobbits keenly. He longed to see the mountains again, to dine with the good elves in their halls at Rivendell, or to take the lake men up on their invitation of a vacation in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain. But, of course, that was not for a respectable Baggins, so Bilbo kept smoking his pipe, and writing his book, and left his dreams of adventure for the counsel of his pillow and sheets.

However, as the cozy autumn spent in Gandalf and Balin's company dwindled and the Shirefolk lost their interest in "queer old Baggins", Bilbo again began to grow restless. He wanted a change, a shift in his everyday if even just slightly, and he took to promenading the Shire as the snows set in carefully like an old man' footing on the soggy spring riverbanks. He wore new paths in old country, finding new delights and places to shelter from a sharply cold gust until it passed, and wore the older paths to well that they could not be missed. It became custom for the hobbit, getting on in his years, to smoke his after-meal pipe on the trails and try to hook his smoke rings on the bare branches of trees.

In fact, he was doing it that very night when, as he passed on a longer trek and headed home, he encountered a willowy, towering figure on the main road. Bilbo hushed his footsteps behind the figure, hearing only the other person's labored breathing, and watched the traveler warily as it swayed while it walked. Bilbo frowned, his forehead wrinkling in concern, and he eyed his hole beyond them anxiously.

The traveler appeared to be venturing toward his door, the green paint pristine and bright against the white of the snow, and Bilbo took the chance to speak suddenly.

"Hello?" He called loudly, hurrying his pace and coming alongside the wobbling wanderer, "Um, hello? Do you have business here?" but the stranger paid him no mind for another few paces.

"..." The stranger turned, clearly a man by his height and stature, but Bilbo was shocked to see the man completely bared to the elements, save his first layer shirt and the wet pants clinging to his legs and the soft boots. He regarded Bilbo strangely, his eyes hidden by a wave of dark hair plastered across his face, casting shadows across his harsh cheekbones as the moon peeked out to catch glimpse of the stranger's face.

"Good Lord!" Bilbo squeaked, shooting forward as the stranger stumbled and shivering with the pale man. "You're practically naked in this weather! Where are you going like this?!" And Bilbo froze cold when the stranger muttered something he hadn't heard in a long time.

"...burglar..." Bilbo nearly dropped the frozen forearm he'd lamely caught, nearly shocked enough to shout, and felt the cold seeping out from the inside this time.

"What do you mean, 'burglar'?" Bilbo said, his voice high and strained, "No burglars here; only respectable hobbits live on Bag End. Best turn around," but again the stranger only stared ahead, the green door seeming to consume his vision, and mumble the word Bilbo had longed never to hear. He wasn't ready for another one of those adventures, not one with thieving and dragons.

And yet, he still managed to lead the staggering, dripping soul into his hole before his lanky frame collapsed on the rug in front of the fire Bilbo had left burning.

Bilbo worried his hands as he watched the stranger sleep, curled toward the flames contently and his face buried in his arm and the blankets the hobbit had rescued from every room. The man's shivers had slowed as they reached the warm, finally halting a few hours ago, but Bilbo was working on his fifth cup of tea and keeping his vigil.

He was no elf; healing was not his specialty, but Bilbo was doing his damnedest to keep from prodding the man with possible remedies and watched him rest instead. Bilbo twitched in his seat when the stranger sniffled once, a pathetic wet sound, and sighed tiredly. How did this strange man know him? Why was he dressed so oddly? The style was almost Elvish were it not for the stark dark colouring and the rough animal hide cloth, and Bilbo couldn't place it as Laketown dress. The stranger was -entirely, from his appearance to his clothes- nothing like those in Laketown, so his knowledge of Bilbo's role in the dwarf company was odd but explainable.

Perhaps he was a traveler passing through and heard the tale, or he had heard it in his homelands; maybe Gandalf had sent him. Bilbo pondered the idea that the wizard had sent the dazed man to him as another prompt to adventure, and bent closer to him on the hearth to inspect his features.

He'd buried his face in the blankets Bilbo had draped around him some time ago, and all that was visible now were his forehead and the tousled mass of thick curls that had dried in the heat of the flames. They curled and rolled like the waves Bilbo had seen crash in to swallow Smaug the Terrible from sight years ago, brushing the tips of his ears, and Bilbo swore if he stared long enough that the reddish-brown locks glowed in response to his attentions.

'Strange...' Bilbo thought. 'how it glows in the firelight. It's almost like' Bilbo stood up quickly, suddenly dizzy, and he hurried into the kitchen to busy himself and his mind. 'Like dragon scales.' As Bilbo began shuffling around his kitchen, raiding his pantry for things to make or meals he could prep for, his mind conjured the image of the beast up from the dark and he was again young and sheltered.

The glittering gold, piles and piles of coins and cups and rows of swords and mail, and the Great Dragon's scales that seemed to glow from within with light the colour of sunsets filtered through smoke.

And Bilbo was awake to see the sun rise that morning, a hot cup of tea from the bottom of his pot clutched in both hands, but his mind was full of treasure troves and simmering dragon fire.

"What on Earth am I doing?" Bilbo asked himself quietly as he turned away from the sunshine and returned to his hole resignedly. "Putting up some stranger in my sitting room... am I some kind of shelter? I should throw this brute right out..." Bilbo came into his room, feeling the heat from the fire on his face and arms, and sighed as he saw a shiver ripple through his unexpected guest. He pushed his robe off his shoulders before sweat could build, crossing the room and setting his empty cup down on the way, and Bilbo stooped around the stranger's nest of blankets to put another log on the fire.

"Well, little thief," Bilbo stumbled toward the flames as his uninvited guest spoke up suddenly, his voice hoarse and gravelly with sickness and cold. "one log is hardly adequate. Add another."