A/N: I'm baaaack! Yes, it has been so incredibly long since I have posted a fanfic, but I now return to you, my faithful readers, with this! Okay, ya, this isn't a very long story… sorry about that. But it is a little something! I had too many Hobbit feels and I had to get them out of my system, and thus this little ficlet was born!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit, all rights to JRR Tolkien, yadda yadda yadda.

They didn't happen often, nor ever on purpose, but moments like this had an odd way of settling over the camp from time to time. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield sat in silence around the flickering fire, the hissing and popping of the wood the only sounds to be heard. It wasn't a sad silence or a heavy one, merely a peaceful quiet born from the comfort and trust of being amongst close friends.

On one side of the fire, Dori, Nori, and Ori sat together. The youngest brother was hunched over, scribbling away in his ever present journal, pausing on occasion to stare blankly at the page, flipping his quill idly in his hand as he searched for the correct word or phrase, before nodding his head and continuing his long narrative. On Ori's right sat Dori, who was leaning against his brother, reading over his shoulder as Ori wrote, pointing out a spelling mistake here, or softly complementing on the flow of a sentence there. On Ori's other side sat Nori. The middle brother was simply staring into the fire, mindlessly flipping one of his daggers in his hand. On occasion, his eyes would surreptitiously flit over to Ori's writing and he would silently read the page before returning his gaze to the flames, an almost undetectable smile playing on his lips.

Not too far from the three brothers sat Oín and Gloin. The older dwarf sat cross legged, a mortar and pestle in his hands as he ground up various medicinal herbs to be stored in jars and saved for later. He hoped they would go unused, but when it came to their reckless company, one could never be too prepared. Next to Oín, Gloin sat on a log, he elbows resting on his knees as he held the pictures of his wife and son in his hands. He stared at the images and wondered about the little things, like what his wife had made for dinner that night or whether or not little Gimli's beard had begun to grow in yet. Gloin ran his fingers along the pictures and smiled as happy memories of his family played out in his mind.

Sharing the log with Gloin was Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. Bifur sat, tinkering with a small wooden toy. It was a little bird attached to sticks, so when one turned the handle on the side, the wings flapped as if it was flying through the air. It had always been a favorite among the children who would visit his old toy shop, and he had probably given away more than he sold, in all truthfulness. He had always been a sucker for the children's smiles. On his left sat Bofur, who, for once, did not have his iconic floppy had atop his head, but rather in his lap as he carefully pulled a needle and thread through a small rip on the top. There were far too many stitches for him to count already, but still he kept the hat. It was a bit ridiculous looking, but it was warm and made people laugh, not too unlike himself. So, Bofur dutifully fixed the rip, thinking that if the goofy, floppy headwear could brighten one person's day, then he was willing to repair an endless amount of holes and tears. Bombur sat at his brother's side, quietly staring up into the starry sky above them, convincing himself that when compared to the distance between where he sat and the stars, the journey to Erebor was a cakewalk. A cakewalk with every type of cake you could imagine, some stacked higher than the Lonely Mountain itself.

A short distance off, Balin and Dwalin sat leaned up against a tree. The younger had his two axes, Grasper and Keeper, on his lap and he slowly ran a polishing cloth along their blades, shining them until the firelight glinted brightly off of them. Next to him, Balin lay with his eyes closed, not asleep, but not fully awake either. He was in the early stages of slumber where one's imaginings play out vividly in their minds. He was remembering the days long ago when Dwalin, Thorin, and himself were mere lads, running wild through the halls of Erebor and causing all sorts of trouble. He smiled softly to himself at the memories.

To Balin and Dwalin's left, Gandalf and Bilbo sat together on another old log. They both had their pipes out, Bilbo blowing smoke rings that would float lazily up into the night sky. Gandalf would puff out all manner of figures, sometimes a butterfly, sometimes a small bird, and even the occasional ship, and they would fly or sail straight through the center of Bilbo's rings before dissipating and rising until they could be seen no more.

Left of Gandalf and Bilbo, Fìli sat on the log with his brother on the ground in front of him, Fìli's legs stretched out on either side of Kìli. The younger concentrated on fletching an arrow in his hands, working with a practiced ease. Behind him, Fìli braided his brother's hair, knowing the intricate knots wouldn't stay, but continuing his task anyway. He finished one braid, giving it a playful tug and smiling when Kìli elbowed him lightly in the knee in return.

Finally, Thorin sat beside his nephews, watching his company. They all had so much heart and loyalty; he felt more confident in the success of their journey with these merchants, tinkers, and toymakers than he would with any trained soldiers. They were more than his friends, they were his family, and he was thankful to have each and every one of them.

And so, for that one night, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield sat in peace. There were no orc attacks, or goblin tunnels, or thunder battles, or trouble of any kind. All those horrible things were sure to come, but as for that night, all was silent.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!