Chapter Text
December 29th 2010
Bilbo has never been particularly fond of cars.
In his experience, they’re too testy, too unreliable. He remembers being eighteen and taking his test, scared out of his wits but doing it anyway just to get it over and done with. He has never owned a car, and now in his early thirties, he never wants to.
It’s sunset when he’s sat in the back of his parents car, singing along to the Christmas music channel. It all feels very festive, with snow covered fields on either side of them as they drive through the Wiltshire countryside. It’s been four days since Christmas and they’re still working their way through the gifted baked goods they had received from friends and family. Bilbo loved coming back down south for the holidays. It’s slightly warmer, and Wiltshire isn’t exactly paradise, but despite the greyness of its towns and cities, it’s home.
Bilbo is thirty one and feels like a kid as he and Belladonna sing along to Wham!, that depressing Christmas song no longer sad, but funny, and enough to wind Bungo up, though he would never turn the radio off.
The M4 is quiet. The pass a sign that says they’re near Swindon, but they’re actually looking for Royal Wootton Bassett. It’s a turn in the road north and they’re there before you can think.
They had been in Trowbridge visiting family – Prim and Drogo, and Frodo, their newborn. They saved visiting Prim for last every year. She was always the best company, calm but funny, catty but subtle about it. She said things to them about the rest of the family she wouldn’t dare utter to anyone else. The Baggins clan could be snotty and stuck up, and Bilbo was infinitely glad that Prim and Drogo were nothing like that.
Belladonna changes the station and a love song comes from the speakers, filling the car with George Michael’s soulful voice. It’s one Bilbo knows too well, associating it with heartbreak most of the time. Now, though, he and Belladonna are too tipsy and riding the Christmas high to care just how loud they’re singing along to Careless Whisper. It’s a good song, and Bilbo wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that he knows every word.
“Didn’t you dance to this at New Year’s last year?” Belladonna asks, turning in her seat to look at him. Her cheeks are flushed red from wine and the warmth in the car, but she smiled, happy and tipsy, with Bilbo much the same.
“Yes, and I managed to make a complete tit of myself in the process,” Bilbo says. Belladonna laughs, grinning at her son. He finds himself smiling back.
“Well, I’m glad you avoided that this year,” she says. “You know…”
“Oh, mum, no,” Bilbo whines, knowing what’s coming next.
“Oh come on Bilbo, he was looking at you for ages! I could probably get his number from Prim, if you wanted. It’s about time you settled down with someone,” Belladonna says. She takes her phone out of her bag and out of instinct, Bilbo leans forward and takes it from her.
“I’m not settling with someone I met at a Christmas party,” he says, but he gives her back the phone, smiling apologetically. “I’ll get there.”
“Of course you will. Just do it before we die, we want to see you get married one day,” Belladonna says. Bilbo rolls his eyes.
“It’s technically not legal here, you know that, right?” he asks.
“It will be one day. Trust me, I know these things,” Belladonna says, tapping her nose. Her eyes, the same as Bilbo’s, sparkle at him knowingly and he can’t help but think that maybe she’s right. Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking.
“Have you two decided where you’re going in the summer?” he asks, changing the subject. Bilbo can practically sense his father ready to jump into conversation, and jump he does.
“We’ve been looking at this lovely little hamlet in southern Italy, actually. Really quiet, really isolated. We could barely find it on the map, but I’m sure we’ll manage. There’s this bridge over the river that cuts through the town, and-“
Bilbo lets his father talk, listening and not listening, content to just look out of the window at the snow falling heavier and heavier outside, white clumps of it sticking to the grass and the roads before being melted or compacted under wheels. You got a lot of black ice on these roads in the winter. Bilbo ignores that thought and let his attention go back to his father, asking him a question.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” he asks, voice full of concern. Bilbo makes eye contact with him in the rear view mirror and shrugs.
“I’ll probably have work to do,” he says. It’s a depressing thought, really.
“Think you can come down for your birthday, then?” Belladonna asks, hope in her voice. Bilbo smiles at her. The effect of the alcohol is diminishing, but he still feels a little lightheaded. It’s the alcohol leaving his system, he thinks, or maybe he’s about to throw up. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thrown up after a Christmas party, or in the back of his parents car. Even just thinking of that one drunken night back in 1999 is enough to bring a flush to his face, even though he knows no one else is remembering it at the time.
“I will. Nothing fancy, though,” Bilbo says, smiling at his mother. She seems content with that and looks back out of the windscreen. From the back seat, Bilbo sees her thick, curly hair coming out of its intricate up-do and for a moment, considers leaning forwards and fixing it for her.
That’s the last thought he has before everything starts spinning.
Brakes screeching, the radio going static, his parents crying out in fear and shock, and Bilbo has no idea what’s happening beyond the sound of tyres squealing along the tarmac of the motorway and his helpless reaching for something to secure himself with. It’s a horrible, horrible feeling, and Bilbo wants it to end, and the last thing he can remember is the cold strike of fear in his chest before they collide with something very solid. Bilbo is thrown forward and his head hits the back of his fathers seat so hard he cal see stars. Something hot blooms from his forehead and he can feel blood trickling down the side of his nose. He's fading, hes fading...
"Mum?" he manages, though his head feels like it's full of cotton wool. "Dad?"
Neither of them answer him. George Michael is still playing. Bilbo is fading out and all he can think is that his mothers hair is now completely ruined.
After that, everything is dark.
Bilbo has never been fond of cars, after all.