Disclaimer emThe Hobbit/em, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J. R. R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.

Grown Accustomed to Her Face

For the fourth time since leaving his dinner only half-eaten, Bilbo scrubbed his hand over his face, cupped his chin in his palm, and gazed at Bofur joking with Nori on the other side of the campfire. He sighed deeply.

Never in his wildest dreams (even as a wee thing scampering off in search of fairies and elves) had he imagined finding himself off on an adventure promising an abundance of thrills and dangers with thirteen dwarves and a wizard. Nor had he suspected when he'd run out his door with his contract fluttering in the breeze that he, Bilbo Baggins, a proper and respectable Baggins of Bag End, would end up attempting to court a dwarf.

It was ridiculous if one thought about it seriously and rationally. The idea of a hobbit and dwarf together was nearly laughable. Their races were so different: their cultures, customs, habits, values, manners…the list went on and on.

But here Bilbo was, months into this quest which he should be concentrating on (like that dragon he has to deal with) and instead he was admiring the way Bofur's eyes shone in the firelight, and worrying if perhaps his undeclared suit was indeed a lost cause. It was amazing the change of heart he'd had regarding the dwarf lass.

Even after all this time Bilbo still blushed hotly at the memory of calling the fur hatted dwarf "Mister Bofur" with a distracted bow, receiving a hearty laugh and a cheery, "Mistress Bofur is fine," and his jaw dropping very impolitely. It had been a shock, retaking in the gravity-defying braids, mustache, stubble, the stout figure. She proved she could be just as loud, rude, and rough as her male companions.

In the beginning Bilbo had been terribly flustered around her. She was nothing like hobbit lasses. But as he gradually got used to her and the others, his nervousness was replaced by annoyance. Frequently he was on the receiving end of her pranks. Her humor was rough for his taste. For a time it seemed she at his elbow whenever he turned around, sharing childhood stories, jokes, anecdotes, asking questions. More than once the hobbit lost his patience, yet the cheery smile on her face rarely faded.

He knew the moment he realized something had changed – though how and why he still could not say. After the trolls had turned to stone and everyone had been busy checking on their kin, Bofur thanked him for saving the company. Her words had come out slow, almost shy. Bilbo stammered and looked up at her. She is lovely. The thought was like a bolt of lightning out of the blue.

By the time Thorin's company snuck out of Rivendell, Bilbo had gone through shock, to denial, to awed acceptance: he had fallen in love with Bofur. Aye, she was uncouth and brash like the others, yet she was also kind and sweet, kept an eye out for him.

For two weeks he wondered how he could court the lass. Rocks held no significance for hobbits, and dwarves viewed flowers as worthless…colorful, but worthless. Finally, the hobbit hit upon something both races highly regarded: food!

Thus the hobbit unofficially turned into the company's chef, offering to prepare dinner each night. And every evening he handed the toymaker her dish, the food cooked with love.

Looking back, it really was no surprise his overtures failed. For Bofur simply expressed thanks at his delivering her meal and dug in. She seemed to not realize the importance of the fact Bilbo had prepared it, he gave it to her. Before many weeks passed she sighed she would never enjoy anyone's cooking as much as his. The compliment simply made the Halfling's heart ache.

As more time passed he tried harder, drizzling some herbs in just her bowl before handing it over. No indication of acceptance or rejection. He now was in the habit of presenting bowls to the toymaker and whichever dwarf (or on a rare occasion, Gandalf) was beside her, and then explain how Bofur's dish differed. The Baggins in him bristled at such desperation, but he was too far gone. The lass always listened with fascination, happily eating away.

Bilbo was not succeeding in his courting attempts.

Tonight had been the third time the hobbit only offered a half-hearted smile when he gave Bofur her food before walking away. His appetite was gone, so supper was a sorry affair for him. Now he was sighing and pining like a heartbroken tween.

A gentle nudge against the hobbit's arm drew his gaze from the fire to Balin. The white-haired dwarf tipped his head to the side, smiled encouragingly. Bilbo shrugged helplessly. His friend's expression grew firm. He nodded sharply. Go. His elbow poked him enough to force the smaller creature to his feet.

There was no heat in Bilbo's parting glare, a wave of fear crashing over him as he walked to the other side of the campfire. Bofur caught his eye and her smile was brilliant and welcoming. Instantly she made room for him beside her.

"Hello, Bilbo," she greeted him.

Seated, he mumbled, "Hello," hands fidgeting in his lap. His eyes darted between his hands, the fire, and Bofur. He swallowed when she cocked her head in that questioning way he'd come to recognize. His eyes jumped up to her hat, easily making out the long ripe near the top; Balin's words ran through his head.

"Bofur," he willed his voice not to waver as he gazed into her dark eyes. "May I fix your hat?"

Her blank look changed to shock. "My hat?" she whispered, sounding breathless.

Certain he was blushing from his neck to the tip of his ears, Bilbo nodded. "I very much would like to fix your hat." (His focus was on the toymaker, so he wasn't positive if the movement over her shoulder was in fact a beaming Ori fist pumping.)

The hope in him faltered when understanding filled Bofur's face. What if she didn't feel the same? What if she was insulted? What if— The lass whipped her hat off and handed to him. (The princes' mouths falling open went unnoticed.) She was as red as he, and the hobbit suspected the smile spreading over his face matched her tender and joyful one.

Feeling close to bursting, the hobbit set to work sewing the rip in the hat. The dwarf rested her chin on her clasped hands while she watched him. An image came to Bilbo of the two of them exactly like this at Bag End. He glanced at Bofur. Her eyes sparkled, as though she knew, shared the same dream.

Perhaps a hobbit and a dwarf together were not impossible after all.

THE END