Chapter Text
Bilbo met him at the art gallery.
It was the much-anticipated exhibition of First Age Masters, and after weeks of unseasonal cold and wet weather the long Thursday was unexpectedly deserted, everyone venturing outside to make the most of the first warm and dry summer’s evening in ages. Bilbo didn’t mind: the quiet coolness of the gallery with its faint smell of paint and old dusty frames was a balm to her soul.
While most of the hype was around the work of Beren Dunadan, in particular his larger than life painting The Glory of Doriath, Bilbo liked the smaller works of Lulu Tinuviel more. Unlike Dunadan’s almost undefinable pastel paint knife smears, Tinuviel’s art showed mountain ranges, forests and meadows with fine brush strokes. The vibrant greens, reds and yellows appealed to Bilbo, reminding her of home. She sat on the padded seats in front of the painting on her own, grateful to Mr Grey for giving her the ticket.
Old and peculiar Gandy Grey had been a good friend of Bilbo’s mother Belladonna, albeit not good enough to show his face at her funeral several years ago, a fact Bilbo could not quite forgive him. Which was part of the reason why she sought him out when she came to the city, to appeal to his conscience perhaps, to spring him into helping her from guilt, she was not sure.
What Bilbo was grateful about was that Mr Grey had been kind enough to help her without asking any questions. He immediately made room for her in the tiny furnished flat above his antiquity shop and offered Bilbo work, telling her she was just in time as he’d been thinking to hire someone anyway and who better to employ than Belladonna’s daughter. Bilbo didn’t quite believe him as there was not a great deal to do apart from dusting and sorting his abysmal mess of a shop, but she was grateful and decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Thinking now how so very similar the main object of Lulu Tinuviel’s smallest work was - Silmaril, which depicted a gleaming jewel of sorts - to what Mr Grey called his fake crystal, which sat in the bottom drawer of his desk and didn’t look very fake at all, Bilbo shook her head with a frown. Her eye was anything but trained for things like jewellery and gems, and it really was none of her business what Mr Grey kept in the depths of any of his drawers, cupboards or boxes. Still, she could not shake the feeling that the old man was far less peculiar than he made out to be. But that was none of her business as well.
As she sat on the padded seats and was absorbed in her own thoughts, a deep, raspy voice said: “Good to see I’m not the only one who appreciates Tinuviel more than Dunadan.”
The man before her was tall and well built, had a bald head and a thick dark beard with plenty grey streaks. He wore washed out black jeans and a very comfortably looking green linen shirt. His eyes were somewhere between smoky grey and steel blue, and they were fixed on Bilbo intently.
“I’ve been told that she mixed his pastel paints, and he mixed her rich colours after a dare they had with each other,” Bilbo said with a small smile, remembering Mr Grey’s long rambling monologue about the two artists, which almost sounded as if he’d personally known them. “He used to despise pastels, and she rich colours, but both changed their minds after they met. They fell in love, and the rest is history.” Whether it was true or not, Bilbo quite liked the story. It sounded terribly romantic to her: a love born from opposites, one that managed to bridge contradictory habits and turn them into dissimilarities that could cohabit peacefully.
Bilbo had no experience with that kind of relationship, she was only familiar with meaningless dalliances that ended with the season, and even those hadn’t happened since her parents died. But from all she’d heard and read and seen, she knew that truly loving someone was an act of courage as well as an act of surrender. Allowing oneself to fall in love and to surrender to that love seemed at times as something she would never experience. As sad as it was, she was - slowly - beginning to make her peace with that.
The man gave a contemplative hum, cocking his head. “I’ve not heard this,” he conceded. “I’ve only heard that their parents detested each other and forced them to remain at a distance. Eventually though, they broke those rules, their shared love for art and painting overcoming all obstacles. Apart from her alleged obsession for dogs and his dog hair allergy, of course. Experts apparently tried to guess for ages why there are dog hairs in the soft reds of The Glory of Doriath. But if indeed she mixed his paints, it makes sense.”
Bilbo had to smile at the image the man conjured up.
He sat down next to her, and they began talking, and before Bilbo knew what happened they had talked until the gallery closed for the day nearly two hours later. Outside, they stood next to each other, neither willing to walk away, until he heard her tummy rumble.
Bilbo confessed, blushing embarrassed, that she had meant to grab a sandwich at the cafeteria inside the gallery but had gotten side-tracked. The man’s mouth curled in a smile in his thick beard and the corners of his eyes crinkled at her honest explanation. Bilbo’s heart thumped in her chest as he asked - a little sheepishly, since it was essentially his fault she had missed out on her dinner - if he could make it up to her and invite her to grab a bite, even if it was late. She had barely said yes, ignoring Lobelia’s voice in her head that shouted at her for being improper, when he already waved his arm for a cab.
Ten minutes later they sat in a tucked away corner of a quaint little pizza place. It was run by two brothers, Bofur, a very cheerful fellow with a ridiculous braided moustache, and Bombur, the chef. Bofur’s eyes twinkled in surprise when Bilbo stepped out behind the man’s bulk, and Bombur didn’t even pretend to hide the wide, pleased grin when he was able to serve antipasto and pizza for two instead of only one. Bilbo gathered that the man was a regular, but always on his own.
Dwalin, he said, his name was, but he didn’t mention his last name, and neither did she when she introduced herself. They ate in silence - the food was delicious and Dwalin was thoroughly pleased with her considerable appetite - but soon talked again about art and books and food and travel. About anything and everything. Just nothing personal.
When they said goodbye, long after midnight, Bilbo knew that Dwalin was a very good customer indeed, for Bofur to be smiling at them indulgently and letting them sit in peace and quiet in their corner until well after closing hours. Dwalin held out his hand, which was covered in long healed tiny scars from all sorts of nicks and cuts but with well groomed, clean fingernails. His massive palm as good as swallowed her dainty hand and he could have easily crushed her. Instead, he held it gently, looking her in the eye and said: “I really want to see you again, Bilbo.”
She did, too.
Very much.
And so they did.
When Bilbo told him she was still fairly new in town and didn’t quite know her way around just yet, Dwalin took charge - something she sensed he had no trouble doing - and organized their next few outings.
First, they met at the Music Hall, to sit in an empty box at the last rehearsal of the famous Rivendell Orchestra before the premier of their wildly anticipated concert. How Dwalin got his hands on such rare tickets Bilbo couldn’t begin to guess but she didn’t really care because she had the best time.
Next, they met at a quaint little tea house for High Tea, run by a very well put together man named Dori. Bilbo thoroughly enjoyed that, too.
Talking to Dwalin was as easy as breathing, not that Bilbo ever really had trouble talking to people, at least not when they shared her passions. Dwalin showed himself to be both knowledgeable and well-travelled. Bilbo relished talking to him about all the experiences of her journeys with her mother, something she had never been able to do back in Hobbiton, where travelling was synonymous with adventure, which was considered a frivolous, bad thing.
The next time they went out, Dwalin picked her up in his car, a black beast of a truck. A blanket and a picnic basket were in the back, and he took her up the scenic drive high up over the city before pulling over at a rest area and giving her command on finding the perfect spot for them to settle down and eat.
Dwalin liked good food and was a man of fine taste, Bilbo had already surmised that much by now, and the contents of the picnic basket were proof: a selection of fine cheeses and thinly sliced charcuterie meats, olives, hummus and tabouli, crusty bread and fluffy rolls and a bottle of perfectly chilled rose. They sat until the sun went down, falling silent when a gorgeous golden sunset lit up the sky.
When he dropped her off at Mr Grey’s shop later that evening, Dwalin was the perfect gentlemen, as he’d been at every step of the way so far, only breathing the barest semblance of a kiss on her knuckles after she had held out her hand for him to shake. Although Bilbo was almost sure that there had been a new level of intensity in his eyes, he did not act on it. And while she was not sure what was happening between them, she was sure that something was happening. The connection she felt when in Dwalin’s presence was not just in her head, surely?
When he picked her up the next time and drove them across town to a beautiful park with lush meadows, clusters of trees and plenty of ponds and lakes she decided to flirt a little, just to see his reaction. Bumping her shoulder into his side lightly when jesting about something earned her a lovely chuckle deep in Dwalin’s broad chest. When he dug the bread out of a bag to feed the ducks, she made sure to touch his arm for a bit longer than necessary, giving his rock-hard bicep a teasing squeeze while smiling up at him. It earned her a knowing hum and one of those intense gazes Dwalin was very good at. And holding on to his hand tightly as they ran off when the silly geese decided to hiss at them, all while laughing breathlessly, earned her to be tucked into his side, with his strong arm slung around her shoulder. They stood like that for a while, just looking at each other. Bilbo was basking in his warm gaze, doing her best to show her own appreciation of the moment in her expression and her smile.
Then he gently tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and leaned down to kiss her. Just a quick peck, no more than a brief, soft touch of lips. But Bilbo felt the tingles from the tip of her toes to the ends of her curly hair, nonetheless.
They went on walking and talking, had ice cream, and sat on a bench, snuggled against each other, watching the world go by. Until they were surprised by a quick summer storm that came out of nowhere, chasing them on the covered veranda of a deserted work cottage. And while they stood there, dripping wet, with Bilbo jumping at every lightning strike and rolling thunder, Dwalin pulled her into his chest and wrapped his strong arms protectively around her. A large hand came up to cup her face, looking deeply in her eyes. Bilbo smiled and turned her head to kiss the inside of his palm.
“Bilbo,” he rumbled, and the way he said her name sent shivers down her spine. She reached up then, to hold on to those broad shoulders and pulled him down until she could press her lips to his. The kiss began sweet and gentle but became wild quickly.
When Dwalin asked her if she would prefer it if he would bring her home or if she’d rather come back to his place, Bilbo didn’t need to think twice.
It was probably way too quick and way too improper. Lobelia would surely be telling her off for her unbecoming conduct.
But Bilbo could not find it in herself to care.
Once at Dwalin’s penthouse apartment, which was a marble sleek luxury, very elegant and spacious but impersonal, things just took their natural course. It turned out quickly that despite the tumbles she’d had during her adventures she had nothing to hold against Dwalin’s experience. It was overwhelming, the way he had complete control, dancing her through every sensation he could coax from her body. All Bilbo could do was cling to him. And there was so much of him to cling to! He was all hard, toned muscles, all powerful strength and stamina. Bilbo found her arms too short to completely wrap them around his shoulders, and her hands too small to fully grab his biceps. Or his perfectly sculpted buttocks. His thick beard was about the only thing she could grab and hold on to. And she did, frequently. Which was the one thing that made him go a little wild. At first Bilbo was embarrassed, thinking she had very little to offer him in the sex department, and she was certain he’d be bored with her quickly enough. But she soon realized that Dwalin got a lot out of bringing her pleasure and watching her finding it.
Like, a lot.
Nothing got him harder than getting her to climax. So, she gave completely in to him and didn’t hold back in her reactions, making full use of the soundproof walls of the apartment. She moaned and keened and purred, arching her spine and pushing herself into him. It wasn’t hard. His obvious enjoyment of her reaction was what made her peak as easily as never before. For the first time ever with a man she managed to simply let go. For the first time, being brazen wasn’t a bad thing.
Instead, it was thrilling.
And she couldn’t get enough of it.
Pretty quickly a routine was established. They’d both do their own thing during the week, meeting up Friday evening where they usually ended up at Dwalin’s apartment, where they stayed until Monday morning. He had explained that it was rather sterile because it wasn’t where he actually lived, just a place to stay in town instead of doing the commute from his office in the city to his home somewhere at the outskirts. It was a reasonable enough explanation and Bilbo certainly didn’t expect to be taken to his home so soon in their relationship. They had just met, after all. In the end meeting on this neutral ground added to the spice of their ... what? Romance? Love-affair? Liaison?
Whatever it was and despite how much she enjoyed herself, Bilbo was cautious about the amount of space she claimed in that apartment of his. She didn’t leave any clothes there, simply used one of Dwalin’s shirts during the days which were more than dresses on her much smaller form anyway. It negated the need of underwear.
Dwalin didn’t seemed to mind.
At all.
And an overnight bag had enough space for Bilbo to carry a set of spare clothing with her, as well as her toiletries. The only things she left at his place were a second set of shampoo and conditioner in the shower, because her curls needed that extra bit of TLC.
They didn’t do much on the weekends Bilbo stayed over, apart from the odd outing; he’d organized a city tour in one of the red double decker buses, where - curiously - they were the only passengers. They went back to Bofur’s for dinner a few times and had several midnight strolls to settle their stomachs after Bilbo’s cooking. The cooking in particular created a domesticity between them that Bilbo came to crave all week, planning the meals in her head and especially brushing up on her baking skills. The latter was particularly important as it turned out Dwalin had a sweet tooth. The first time he moaned around a bite of her famous cinnamon palmiers she all but scrambled off her chair and into his lap, kissing him breathless. That had had been a most enjoyable afternoon.
After only a couple of months, Dwalin’s impersonal, terribly functional, sleek apartment felt more like home than Bag End had for years. Of course, it had all to do with who was filling the space: Bag End had been empty since her parent’s death, too quiet, the large space heavy with history and foreboding, whereas Dwalin’s apartment was filled with his scent, his deep voice, his booming laugh. It was where someone listened to what she had to say and poured her a glass of wine while she cooked dinner. Where he would reach for her while she cooked, to give her slow, languid kisses. It was where she pulled at him when he did the dishes, giving him hot kisses. But it was also where she could fall asleep on the couch, and wake with a fluffy blanket around her, tucked into Dwalin’s side.
It almost felt as if they were caught in an enchantment of sorts, a spell that kept them in their own magical little world.
They spent their four months anniversary on Dwalin’s penthouse terrace, which offered perfect views over a city bathed in the purple hues of a late autumn sunset. The perfect setting for a round of slow, sensual sex. Nights were getting cooler, but it did not matter as long as Dwalin was close; the man was at all times hot like a rock that had been baking in the sun for hours. For the first time Bilbo found herself looking forward to chilly winter nights.
Basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking Dwalin was roused by the constant hum of his phone. He usually had it on silent when they were together but occasionally he had stepped out to take care of work - whatever it was he was doing as an occupation. They had yet to touch on personal topics, although Bilbo had the feeling that it would soon be time. They couldn’t live in this bubble forever, and Mr Grey had begun eyeing her strangely when she came back to his shop on Monday morning, content and happy if a little tired, and very obviously sexed out.
Without Dwalin next to her on the daybed it got cold quite quickly so Bilbo rose, wrapped herself in the large blanket and made her way back inside to have a quick shower and find another shirt of Dwalin’s she could wear.
It became soon clear that something was wrong as Dwalin was very obviously agitated after his phone call, even if he didn’t offer explanations. He went off twice more to talk to someone while Bilbo finished dinner and the dishes. They only snuggled later, watching a movie and going to bed without any more tumbling. Bilbo had curled up against him, her head on Dwalin’s shoulder, falling asleep quickly. She woke when he carefully eased himself out from under the blanket and left the room. A moment later she heard his deep rumble from the other side of the apartment.
He was on the phone again.
Bilbo tried to fall asleep once more, she really did. But something kept nagging at her. Fighting that little voice that told her to go and check out what was going on she turned over and stuffed the pillow in her ears.
It was no use.
Finally giving in to temptation Bilbo got up and walked on silent feet across the expanse of the pristine marble tiles toward where Dwalin’s voice was still humming through the apartment, his words ebbing back and forth. Clearly, he was pacing, agitated about something, trading hefty words with whomever he was talking to: “-no point arguing ... Thorin would never have stood for it ... Dain’s an idiot ... none of anyone’s business ... What else is new? ... We’ll never know about the boys and speculation only brings you sleepless nights ... Don’t tell me what to do!”
While Dwalin’s tone was exasperated and annoyed at first, that last bit was said with a fair bit of growl. Bilbo couldn’t suppress a smile. He was a passionate man in bed, it followed he’d be equally intense in all other manners of life.
“The lass is good for sex, no more.”
That sentence had Bilbo stop in her tracks. The smile slid from her face, and she frowned. “... don’t care if she comes from a good family ... well, we both know that means nothing.”
What is he saying? “... spreading her legs is her only talent ... a screamer, Nori says she can be heard through the walls of the apartment.”
Bilbo swallowed, suddenly feeling cold.
“... conversation with her goes in circles, if that. Mostly it’s a train wreck ... was bored within the second meeting ... no, I don’t want to officially introduce her ... she can remain a dirty, little secret but she’s not fit for more.” Dwalin’s tone sounded brutally final, a hard edge in his voice she had never heard of him before. Shivering, Bilbo took a few silent steps back.
“I have nothing more to say ... keep her for the weekend but otherwise she has no place in our family.” The sound of a flat hand slapping on a table could be heard. It ripped Bilbo out of her stupor. She turned around and hurried back to bed, lying down and curling up on the far side of the bed, trying to calm her racing heart.
It took a fair while for Dwalin to return to the room, enough time, in fact, for Bilbo to succeed in calming her throbbing pulse and managing a somewhat even breathing rhythm, pretending to sleep.