#but it’s curious how bunny stands out so negatively aside from the rest of the group

[voidignitia]

Bunny is written very negatively. Richard constantly assures the reader that Bunny was a good friend, but every passage with Bunny is direct conflict or sheds Bunny in a bad light.

I wonder, is this indicative of Richard’s guilt, telling himself he did like Bunny more than he thought he did and he didn’t deserve to die? Or is he retroactively justifying the murder to himself by remembering “hey yeah he *was* a bigot” and dwelling on the ways Bunny’s murder wasn’t a big issue?

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Day 1 Hobbit Plot Bunnies

Title: Journey to You

Summary:  Everybody Lives AU. Bilbo made his peace with returning back to the Shire, but starts to become bored and finds himself longing for Thorin. He leaves to go back to Erebor only to never reach his destination. Thorin must retrace the hobbit’s steps to find him, and bring him home before it’s too late.

POV: Mostly Thorin with Bilbo at the beginning.

Bilbo heaved a huge sigh as he collapsed into his favorite armchair with his pipe in hand and a book on the table beside him. After months of being on the road, and weeks of tracking down his furniture that had been prematurely auctioned off, he was finally where he was supposed to be. Safely tucked away in his cosy Hobbit Hole, comfortable and relaxed at last.

He shifted in the seat and lit his pipe. He flipped open to the first page of one of his favorite stories and began to read. He was only a paragraph in when he had to fidget once more. He was barely done with the page when he realized how oppressive the silence was. He wasn’t even remotely through the first chapter when he plopped the book back down on the table hard and herded himself into the kitchen. He was just hungry was all. Nevermind he was still trying to acclimatize himself to a hobbit’s eating schedule again, and found himself stuffed full after four meals every time.

He pittered around in the pantry, but never could settle on something that sounded remotely appetizing. It must be the stale air inside the smial then. He was still used to the road’s gentle breeze. A nice sit out on his bench would be enough to settle him. So without further amble, he settled himself outside in the warm and green garden. The Shire’s rolling fields and endless blue skies, a welcome sight.

The exact shade of Thorin’s eyes. He mused.

It was that single thought that broke through the domestic bliss around him causing him to choke on the smoke he breathed in. He clutched at his chest as he tried to expel the extra pipeweed from his lungs. It still did nothing to relieve the aching hole that was newly exposed to him. Thorin Oakenshield.

The dwarf he ran off into the wild for. The dwarf he killed an orc for. The dwarf he riddled a dragon for. The dwarf who held a hero’s feast for him after the Battle of the Five Armies, yet still sent him back home with a pat on the back and a box of meaningless jewels.

It’s not like you would have said yes, if he asked you to stay. A voice in his head tried to remind him. His place was in Bag End. He made that intention clear to everyone throughout the journey. What would he do in a mountain of dwarves anyhow? All of that stone couldn’t be comfortable, and he could hardly see in the dark as it was.

It didn’t matter that those thirteen dwarves made him feel more included than his fifty plus years living in the Shire. It didn’t matter that he was stared at in wonder and admiration there versus the politely concealed animosity and judgement he found here. And a certain dwarf king’s almost death on the ice almost certainly had no bearing on his emotional state. 

His gaze flitted to the east where he pretended he could just barely see a single, solidary peak rising over what would be the Misty Mountain range. With a final exhale, he knocked the ashes out against his bench, and watched as the wind picked them up to carry them away. He turned back towards his cheerful little round door, heaved another sigh, and went back inside.

The next day, he decided he was going to start writing down his adventure, but he barely got a few sentences into it before realizing what a terrible idea that had been as Thorin was once more fresh on his mind. He decided to organize his study instead.

The day after, Bilbo went down to the market to buy some fresh produce only to notice a traveling dwarven caravan headed east. He ignored the whispers of ‘Mad Baggins” as he ran back home as quickly as he could, afraid he was going to tear off after them.

The day after that, his young cousins came over to hear the “Troll Story” again. He managed just fine until he got to the Carrock, and then his throat closed up and he had to excuse himself. 

A week later, Bilbo had been invited to a party where he found himself inexplicably irate that no one walked across the tops of the tables or held belching contests. He stopped accepting invites after that.

Another week went by where Bilbo finally broke down and decided to write a letter to Thorin. After all, they were still friends, and friends wrote each other. He had to throw away the first draft due to underlying longing in his words. Fifteen drafts later did not improve his skills, and the water stains that started to appear would have been hard to explain away. That was about the point Bilbo had enough of his ‘comfortable’ life in the Shire.

“You’ll not be the same hobbit as when you left.” Bilbo mocked Gandalf’s words from before as he threw clothes out of his wardrobe looking for something acceptable to stuff in the growing pack on his bed.

“He never said I would be unable to readjust back to Shire life! Blasted wizard! And blasted dwarves! I would have been perfectly fine living the rest of my life in an ignorant bliss of the outer world!” He cursed moving on to gather food for the journey.

Bilbo finally left his hands resting behind his head after he moved them through his hair and stared down at the bulging pack before him. Was he really going to run out his door after a dwarf with blue eyes and a soft smile once more? He went over to his chest where he almost reverently pulled Sting out. With a quick nod, he strapped on the sword, shouldered his pack, and locked his door. He left the key inside the postbox along with instructions of who to hand his childhood home over to as he was most likely not coming back. The only other post being a letter that was sent out in the mail the next day.

Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, Erebor

Dear Thorin,

I hope you are up for receiving company because I am coming home to stay for good. I have already started on the road, and shouldn’t be far by the time you read this missive. I’ll do my best to arrive promptly by four for tea time. In the unlikely event that I would not be welcome, at least spare me a night before that uncomfortable conversation. 

With the deepest of regards,

Bilbo Baggins, formerly of Bag End, formerly of the Shire

***

Thorin had been rather impressed with how well he was able to keep his thoughts from drifting towards a certain Burglar who stole more than just his Arkenstone. Aside from still healing from a grievous injury, there was much to do with the restoration of Erebor and the moving of his people back to the mountain. A job that had taken decades the previous time around.

However, after the first month or two, work for him somehow managed to slow down. With less than two thousand in the mountain, there wasn’t much that required his direct supervision. Dis was handling all the relocation efforts from her end at the Blue Mountains, and any plans, disputes, or consultations that required his attention were done before the midday meal. So it was during his afternoon training and walk around his kingdom that his mind began to wander and freeze upon the little hobbit from their journey.

His smile, his eyes, his bouncing curls, his clever mind. Over and over, Thorin would imagine the hobbit next to him in the mountain. Agreeing or disagreeing with the decisions he made, stepping up onto the ramparts to turn his face to the sun, eating and laughing with the company at their evening meals. Every day his heart seemed to ache a little more, and every day he managed to convince himself it was for the best.

After all, what had he done for the hobbit? He belittled and degraded him every step of the way. He frequently forced him into perilous situations where they had to rely on his quick wit. Lest he forget, he tried to kill him under the influence of a hereditary illness that he never properly apologized for nor had any idea if it would return. No, Master Baggins was better off far away from him which is why he did his best to send the hobbit on his way with enough gold to live the rest of his life in luxury. He never doubted this was the way it must be.

Or was it he didn’t want to hear the negative if he did ask for the hobbit to remain? The thought pierced through the self-sacrificing haze of his internal monologue. He wanted to scoff for it sounded like a drunken ballad: the brave and noble warrior king afraid of rejection by the soft and clever mouse. Still, the burning in his gut seemed to indicate that was exactly it.

Therefore, Thorin made his peace with his yearning heart. There was just one small miniscule thing standing in his way: he missed his friend. It was the sheer fact that he was half a world away that kept him from hopping on a pony, and dropping by for the visit Bilbo promised they were all welcome to. He had tried to pen a letter, but the written word was never his strong suit. Nor was the spoken word for that matter, not like the talented tongue Bilbo possessed. So he found himself waiting for the hobbit to make the first contact. And waiting. And waiting. And Thorin was really tired of waiting.

When Balin discussed the idea of an embassy to Dale, Thorin agreed immediately, much to the surprise of the old advisor, just so he would have something to do again. Besides, he owed Bard much and felt obligated to be a part of this delegation personally.

It was fine for the most part. Bard eagerly showed him the changes they were making, and how much the city has already grown thanks to the dwarrows labor trade. Thorin was really only half-invested until they came to a curious alcove where a single green sprout was growing inside a circle of stones. When he asked about it, Bard gave him a sheepish look.

“I thought you knew. That’s the spot where Bilbo planted his acorn. My people are committed to seeing its growth as a symbol of hope for years to come.”

Thorin’s feet stopped moving as his eyes remained trapped on the little green plant. He knew this acorn very well, and in fact, the words Bilbo spoke at the time were swirling Thorin’s head on replay.

“One day it’ll grow, and every time I look at it I’ll remember. Remember everything that happened. The good and the bad, and how lucky I am that I made it home.”

He was supposed to take it home to plant in Bag End. Why did he plant it here? When did he plant it here? Unless…

Every time I look at it...I made it home.

Thorin apologized to Bard for having to end their tour so abruptly, but he had to get back to Erebor immediately. The man didn’t seem to put out, and Thorin was racing back to the mountain where he called the company into an emergency meeting.

“I’m an idiot.” He began. “We have to go and bring Bilbo back home immediately.”

“FINALLY!” Kili cheered. “I thought we were going to have to put up with your moping for the rest of our days!”

Thorin tried to glare at his nephew, but it didn’t come across very well. While Balin was all for the return of their Burglar, he was very reluctant against Thorin’s personal involvement in the retrieval. However, Thorin would not budge on the issue, especially when Fili was more than capable of taking on his duties for a few months. After much arguing back and forth, it was agreed that Dwalin, Nori, Bifur, Kili, and the two guards Dwalin was training, Goram and Tul, would accompany Thorin to the Shire.

He ordered them to pack because he was wasting no time and wanted to leave first thing in the morning. It would take them three months, which considering the long and grueling journey to get there in the first place, was no time at all. Thorin felt like his soul was soaring the closer they got to that little green door that hid his clever and fussy hobbit. 

The afternoon when Hobbiton came into view, Thorin spurred the pony into a full gallop much to the amusement of Dwalin and Kili. He didn’t care, he was about to see Bilbo again. He knew exactly what he would say as soon as he saw him. He would apologize for being a rock-headed king who should have never sent him away and ask him to come back home. Bilbo would probably agree that he is rather stubborn, but forgive him and get started packing immediately. 

He jumped from the pony’s back clearing the picket fence in one smooth move much to the startlement of the passing hobbits. He could hardly bring himself to care as he knocked on the door, unaware that he was panting until he was waiting in the charged tension. He focused on catching his breath, inhaling sharply when the door opened.

“Bilbo, I-”

He nearly swallowed his tongue in mortification when the hobbit behind the door was revealed. He had the same button nose and muddy blonde hair, but otherwise his dark eyes and chubby cheeks were a stark contrast to what he was expecting. Thorin couldn’t believe it. Did he get the wrong hole? It had a green door, but then again there was nothing saying that Bilbo had the only green door in Hobbiton. An apology was on the tip of his tongue for a whole new reason when the hobbit tilted his head in curiosity.

“Are you by any chance Thorin Oakenshield?”

Thorin nodded still unable to comprehend what was happening. The hobbit gave a wide grin before turning back into the smial.

“Prim! You’ll never guess who’s at the door! It’s Bilbo’s dwarf. It’s Thorin Oakenshield!”

A voice from inside squealed when a female hobbit with dark locks and sweet blue eyes appeared with a wide grin. Something about being called Bilbo’s dwarf ignited something in him which allowed him the function of creating words again.

“At your service.” He gave a small nod with a hand crossed over his heart. “I’m looking for Bilbo. Do you know where I can find him?”

The couple shared a look. Thorin felt like he had been dunked in a bucket of ice water. Something was wrong, and he’s learned to trust his instincts over the years. The only thing he could plead for was not to hear of his death. Please Mahal above, don’t let me find out this way.

“Bilbo left months ago.” The male hobbit answered.

“Left?” Thorin repeated numbly, his heart gradually remembering how to beat again.

“Put in his will that he was going back to Erebor.” The female added.

“Wait. What?!”