A/N: Hello. It's me. I was wondering if after a year long impromptu hiatus you'd like to read.

Okay but seriously, even though I haven't posted since 2014, I am back. Updates are probably going to be pretty slow from here on out (though hopefully not with a year in between them), and while they probably won't be all that regular, they will come.

I lost a lot of my plans and already written work for this fic when my cat peed on my computer and fried my hard drive (no joke- you just can't make these things up), and thanks to a couple concussions my memory is a bit spotty. I'm going to need to take a bit to get reacquainted with the Hobbit and it's plot.

Thanks for sticking around you guys, and welcome to the crazy train, new readers.

Within a minute, the Dwarves had gathered in the kitchen and around the table (which made it three hundred percent faster than they had in the first round of things), and one of the Dwarves (Balin, who was Bilbo's new favourite) informed him of Dwarf Number Late's name (Thorin Oakenshield, apparently) and the fact that he was the Dwarf King (Bilbo wasn't surprised he was a bit of an ass- tales as old as time tended to gloss over stuff like that).

The Dwarves were a lot quieter than they had been earlier, and awkward silence reigned in the kitchen, broken up only by the sounds of Thorin eating and the smoke wafting out of Gandalf's pipe, until Bilbo broke the silence.

"So, about this quest. What exactly are we doing?"

He'd messed up earlier, revealing the little he knew about the quest to Gandalf if his surprise was anything to go by, and it wasn't hard to fill in the blanks. He doubted that many Hobbits in this time frame would know all that much about world issues (heck, they still didn't in his time), but a dragon attacking a dwarven kingdom would be news, unless it happened a long time ago. Seeing as Dwarves, who lived a good two to three hundred plus years (therefore having some measure of time to bide) made up most of the central players that he knew of in the situation, it wasn't hard to guess that it had happened well before his time, and seeing as that hadn't been questioned by anyone, Bilbo figured it remained around the same mark of fifty, which was probably much too young to know too much about the situation.

He ignored Gandalf's considering look, and stared pointedly at where Thorin and Balin were sitting, figuring if anyone knew what was going on, they did.

Turns out, they all did. The explanation Bilbo received was delivered with contributions from every dwarf there, and involved a lot of confusing interruptions . He figured if he didn't have practice dealing with the same over enthusiasm from young trainee squads after their first successful missions, or hobbit kits telling older teens like him about their exploits and feats of "bravery" long before, he wouldn't have been able to keep up and would've simply ended up even more "confused" than before. It went something like this:

"Well, laddie, about a century and a half ago, a dragon called Smaug-" started Balin.

"You know, bigger than a house, a furnace with wings, greatest calamity of our age," interrupted the one with the hat.

"Anyways, Smaug descended upon the Kingdom of Erebor after demolishing the nearby City of Dale, and-"

"Drove the Dwarves of Erebor from their rightful home!"

That was rather impassioned. Oakenshield clearly needed to learn how to "calm himself," as the new recruits were always saying.

After a few more minutes of this chaotic style of explanation Ori? Ori, yep that's it. Ori jumped up, and to the laughter of his companions, shouted "I'm not afraid of him! I'll shove some dwarvish iron right up his jacksie," before being pulled back down to his seat by his brother, wait for it, wait for it, Dori.

Well, that clinches it. Even if he wasn't fully convinced already, he'd probably have to join just to make sure that one makes it to adulthood.

"Okay," Bilbo said, waiting for the ruckus to die down. "So we're trying to... kill the dragon?"

"To reclaim the mountain," Balin nodded.

"Sounds good. Do we have a plan for killing him?"

"As burglar, part of your job will be to descend into the mountain first and check the area."

Bilbo nodded to himself. It made sense to get someone to go and check for weaknesses beforehand.

"Okay. Next question. Why do a bunch of Dwarves need a hobbit?"

Gandalf stepped in to answer that one before Bilbo could pull a round of "let's see how much nitpicking it takes to drive one of these dwarves insane".

"In order to reclaim the Mountain, Smaug has to be killed, and in order to be killed, we must find a weak point in his hide. The dragon recognizes the scent of Dwarves, however he does not recognize that of a Hobbit, and from what I recall, they are rather light on their feet when they want to be."

Someone (Bilbo couldn't for the life of him tell who) muttered "Yeah, that and Oin woulda refused to come on a quest with thirteen members."

That... actually explained a lot.

The topic moved on, from Bilbo's role to however the heck they were actually going to get in the mountain since the gates had been collapsed and were therefore a no-go, because apparently one constant was that there is no such thing as "simple" in Middle Earth, no matter where or when you were.

Gandalf produced a key and Thorin a map, and plans were made to sneak in through a hidden door that no one really knew the location of, because if there was anything Dwarves could do, it was illogical.

Well, illogical and stubborn.

But at least that took care of the issue of How the Fuck We're Going to Get Into the Mountain, (sort of- apparently there were Terms and Conditions to secret doors?) provided they could actually find the door, which Bilbo would not have put money on, but hopefully that said more about his unwillingness to gamble then their actual chances.

The Dwarves' discussion took a turn from the mountain to the fact that they apparently didn't have any help coming until after they killed the dragon and Bilbo found himself silently seething, because you know what decent people do when close relatives within their own dang species are homeless? You help them get their goddamned home back, that's what.

"So, since we don't need to wait up for anyone, when exactly are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow at first light," answered the broody one (who Bilbo would probably call Master Oakenshield only rarely. Being petty in his head was way too much fun).

Balin muttered something to Thorin in Khuzdul, and Bilbo, who didn't know all that much picked up only two things: "halfling," and "sign".

Never mind. Balin was no longer his favourite.

What was it with these Dwarves and "halfling," anyways? You'd think no one had ever told them it was rude to call someone half a person!

Wait. Sign?

Fuck, Bilbo groaned internally. It's the Third Age, so Eru himself probably couldn't tell me whatever the weird omen they're looking for is.

Broody One snapped something back at Balin before walking off into the smial, headed once again for the bedrooms. Bilbo didn't say anything, but wasn't above a small snort when he heard a strong curse in Khuzdul echoing out of the room.

Serves him right for the halfling nonsense.

A little while later, once Bilbo had put Late Dwarf's dishes away (he just left them there, the ass) and sorted out sleeping arrangements (is it hard to fit thirteen dwarves and a wizard into a hobbit hole? Yes.) and filled everyone in on these sleeping arrangements ("Yes, you can sleep there. No, you can't sleep there and-for the love of Eru, you can't sleep on your brother he'll suffocate, whatever-your-name-is."), Bilbo had finally settled down on a chair in the corner, and had been there for all of thirty seconds before he was bothered again.

He bolted up from the chair, saying "Nori, I don't care what it is this time, there is no argument on the face of Middle Earth that will convince me to let you sleep on top of the fireplace mantle- oh, hello Balin. Is there anything you need?"

"Actually, yes. In order to join the Company, you need to sign a contract in the case of an emergency."

Oh. That was the sign? Thank goodness. If there was one thing Bilbo didn't do, it was creepy omens.

Balin watched on as the halfling's eyes flicked over the many lines of the contract. The Hobbit didn't bat an eye at the lines about incineration or funeral arrangements (quite unlike Dori, who had, at that point, completely forbidden his brothers from going), which was a relief. Balin didn't think he could handle anything past what had already transpired.

At first sight of the hobbit-hole, Balin had gained a bad feeling about how this was going to go, but the nonchalance with which Bilbo treated the fact that there was a good chance that he may not return quelled his worries.

Well, his original worries, at least. Unfortunately, he found himself with an entirely new set.

The Hobbit was actually willing to go across Middle Earth and slay a dragon for them, but Balin was sure it wasn't just out of the goodness of his heart.

No, Balin knew the look of someone trying to outrun his ghosts (knew it like the back of his hand after Azanulbizar), and the halfling fit the bill. He had the scars, the haunted look, the jumpiness. The fighting ability he'd demonstrated so far wasn't inconsiderate, Balin certainly hadn't missed the whole "lurking in the shadows" bit, and the little speech he'd given to Thorin had clinched the deal.

No, that halfling needed to get away from here like he needed air. Maybe whatever had happened hadn't happened here, but Balin knew that sometimes ghosts had a bad habit of sticking around any place that was the slightest bit familiar.

But there was the question as to where those ghosts came from, and Balin could safely say he'd not the faintest idea. It was rather probable that whatever it was was a battle or a war of some kind (there was only one kind of environment where you could get scars like that, he reasoned), which begged the question- which? There weren't many major events in even semi-recent memory that involved halflings. As a matter of fact, Balin couldn't remember any major historical events involving halflings for that matter.

So why did Master Baggins have the haunted quality of someone who knew death like their own last name?

Gandalf was watching him, and it was putting Bilbo slightly on edge. The Dwarves were beginning to get over the shock of a Hobbit who held the qualities of a seasoned warrior (kind of? Sort of? A bit? He was going somewhere, Bilbo knew that, he just wasn't sure of the direction), but Bilbo was at least eighty five per cent sure that if any of them had known the other Hobbit, it was Gandalf. Not too well, but enough that he could tell something was up.

Was he going to do something about it? Probably not. There was only so much nonsense that a Hobbit could handle in one day, and Bilbo was pretty sure he'd already surpassed that several times over.

After all, the Dwarves were settling down, the food had been eaten and cleaned, the pipes had been clogged (they'd be leaving tomorrow anyways), there was the scent of horrible pipe weed clogging up the living room and a fire roaring away in the hearth. All in all, it made for a pretty homey feel, and after a final check that everyone had somewhere to sleep and enough blankets, Bilbo was just about ready to turn in.

Just as he was leaving the room, he swore he heard a song so familiar it hurt. One that he'd heard countless times, on good days and bad, sung by dwarvish friends in both a land and a time far, far away from where he was now.

Probably just his mind playing tricks again.

God knows it did that enough.