Disclaimer: I do not own the hobbit, its characters or places. I merely decided to play with them one day.
Note: This story will now contain scenes of a violent nature, if this offends you please do not flame me. Flamers will be roasted over an open fire. I am good friends with Tom. Seriously though, I write for myself and while I am happy if people enjoy the work I post, I do not care if you want to flame me. Constructive criticism is welcome. Flames are just rude.
Note: This story now contains slash, if this offends you please do not flame me. If it disgusts you please move into the relevant century and keep your narrow minded views to yourself. We are all entitled to our own opinions and just because you do not agree with something does not mean it is right. Also there is a simple solution to the issues you have. Don't read the story.
Hobbits were a strange folk Dwalin decided. They skirted around him, making very little noise other than squeaking when he looked at them. Their fear hurt him slightly and he sighed, tightening the straps across his chest as he pushed to his feet from his short rest. He had wanted to sit for longer but the fearful glances had put him on edge and he now just wanted to be away from them all. He carefully shouldered his pack, a feeling of loneliness and shame settling in his chest. He plodded on in what he hoped was the right direction. He was a dwarf and above ground his sense of direction wasn't the best. A sign hung at the cross roads he'd reached, its delicately curved script pointing him down the right hand road for Hobbiton, and with a sense of foreboding he turned his feet in that direction. He passed a group of hobbits who seemed less fearful of him than the others, yet as he paused considering asking them for directions, a shout of laughter reached his ears and turned away sharply his eyes stinging. In doing so he failed to notice one of the males had pushed to his feet and was staring after him with an awe-filled expression. Dwalin stomped on, his booted feet sure on the pebbled path, his tattooed head lowered as he sunk into thoughts. His shoulders were hunched in, and his hands tucked into the edges of his cloak. He swallowed, closing his eyes against the wave of loneliness that swept over him when a burst of joyous laughter floated out of an open window. Without realising it he had come to a stop, resting against a dry stone wall and staring out across the gently rolling valley. He stood there as the day crept by, lost in thoughts of his past. Hobbits scurried passed him, giving him a wide berth, and whispering about him when they were a safe distance away. When he came back unto himself Dwalin was surprised to see the sun sinking beyond the horizon, its fiery colours tempered into a wash of pastels in the sky. He sighed and shook his head, scolding himself for being sentimental and turned to try and find his way again. To his disbelief he was standing in front of a well-made wooden gate. A wooden gate fixed with a metal sign baring the words 'Bag End' upon it. He allowed his eyes to trail up the worn, but sturdy stone steps to a round green door complete with a blue rune carved into it. He snorted, at least something had gone right that day.
Bilbo had been sitting enjoying the sun with a group of his friends, when a strange figure had caught his eye. His aborted start had caused his companions a great deal of laughter and he watched as the figure turned away. He had pushed to his feet unknowingly, causing the laughter around him to die as his eyes followed the impressive form. He frowned down at his friends, shaking his head at their should know better, even if they had laughed at him, he would bet the male had thought the group was laughing at him. He would also bet that any hobbits the male had encountered would not have been kind or even approachable, for a race that prided themselves on being polite his folk could be the most ill-mannered peoples in Middle Earth. He sighed, leaving his friends without a good bye, and ignoring their demands that he tell them what they'd done wrong. Bilbo wandered back to his home, lightly stepping over the roofs of his neighbours as he couldn't be bothered with polite conversation. He was intrigued as to why a dwarf would be in the Shire of all places, but reasoned that he would likely never find out, and resigned himself to a life of dullness. A life that had seemed fine until a wizard had offered him a chance of an adventure that he had turned down. Cursing himself Bilbo entered by his unlocked kitchen door and shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up. He dumped the clothes on his bed and set about tidying his home. Standing in the living room holding a book he gave up, he doubted he would make an indent on the clutter he had gathered over the years and something in him wanted to bake. He nodded determinedly, he would bake then he would make himself some supper, go to bed and when he got up in the morning rinse and repeat. Muttering unflattering things about wizards under his breath, Bilbo stomped to his kitchen, loosing hours of the afternoon as he immersed himself in baking and cooking. When he stopped the air was cooler and the sun hung low on the horizon. He sighed and made himself a simple supper of salted fish and rosemary potatoes. Just as he was squeezing lemon over his supper a pounding knock echoed through Bag End.
AN: Please let me know what you think, I do enjoy reading you reviews.