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Winters in the Shire were gentle, made of snow like frosting sugar and faunt’s laughter, nothing like the ice Thorin had trudged through in his youth. The smell of spiced chocolate followed him to the market and off-key but joyous singing accompanied him on the way home, to Bag End. He’d not admit it to anyone but Bilbo, and only on threat of not being allowed at his husband’s tea cakes, but with every passing year the soft winters of the Shire felt like a balm to the frost he’d suffered through in his years as a wandering dwarf, with no kingdom to his name and certainly no armchair ‘relieved’ from Bilbo.
He turned to watch a collection of ruddy-cheeked faunts tumble through the snow and idly noted the new scarves a few of the children wore. He shifted the basket on his arm and hummed as he grabbed for the front door of Bag End, already switching his thoughts to finances. He could order a few scarves for the smial, Bilbo had been complaining about the draft that had started coming through Frodo’s room only a few nights ago and the wool seemed suitable for Frodo if none of the other faunts were scratching at it. He could drop back by the market and find whoever was selling them and return before Bilbo and Frodo got home, they’d make for a nice addition to the gifts he’d already crafted. He lifted his basket to the side to get through the door, preoccupied with his thoughts enough to startle when a loud crash echoed through the hallway.
The basket was immediately placed to the side and his carving knife drawn. He may have agreed to hang up Orcrist years before, but the knife was a small thing he allowed himself, and as another crash sounded through the smial, distinctly ceramic, he silently praised himself for his foresight.
He crept through the building, tucking himself in tight against the wall before the pantry with his knife ready. Someone was still shuffling about inside, likely trying to hide the damage, and Thorin prepared to swing around the corner and catch the intruder unaware. He only managed to get one foot forward before the intruder snuffled, a very familiar snuffle. Thorin dropped his knife back into its pouch and took a step into the pantry all in one breath.
Frodo looked up at him in alarm as he rounded the corner, face dirty with dust and crumbs, and his snuffle morphed into a frightened yelp as his uncle crouched beside him. “Frodo,” Thorin took in the broken cookie jar, the knocked over crate of spuds, and the red rims around his nephew’s eyes in a glance, “Why aren’t you with your uncle?”
He shuffled on the spot under Thorin’s attention, hiding his hands behind his back, and mumbled his answer. His hair was in disarray, worse off than his dusty clothes, and the curls atop his feet weren’t doing much better. Thorin sighed and dusted off the boy’s face, wondering if all nephews in Arda needed as much dusting as his three, before smiling at him, “Go get cleaned up, then come back and we’ll clean this up together.” He softly kissed Frodo’s forehead and ruffled his hair, succeeding in sending a volley of dust onto the faunt’s face and lifting the regretful frown he’d likely been wearing since breaking the jar.
He turned back to the mess as Frodo ran off. It wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought, at least; the ceramic had only broken into a few pieces that he easily collected and removed while the potatoes only seemed to suffer the dirt either he or Frodo had tracked into the pantry.
He found a replacement jar for the shattered one as Frodo came back, hair clean if not combed and with fresh clothes. Thorin set the jar on the shelves and turned to his nephew, wordlessly beckoning him closer and taking the bead Frodo held out to him, marking him son of Drogo and Primula Baggins. He began braiding his nephew’s hair, occasionally running his hand over it to smooth it down, before deeming Frodo’s hair as kept as it was going to get.
“You are not dressed warm enough, bunnanun,” He stood from where he’d been attending Frodo’s hair and smiled softly, “Taglibi Bilbo?” (What did Bilbo say?)
Frodo’s nose scrunched up as he translated, Thorin’s chest warmed with pride as his nose relaxed and he looked down at his clothes, “He asked me to get a coat.”
“Ah so that’s why you’re here alone,” He headed further into the pantry and retrieved a broom for Frodo, remembering to pick the dwarf-sized one for himself, “I was unaware your coat was hidden in a cookie jar.” He smirked secretly as he righted the crate, knowing the shuffling feet behind him was more than Frodo moving to sweep.
The two worked quietly to clean the pantry, Thorin grumbling occasionally as he bumped into shelves just too short for him to pass easily. He caught Frodo up in a tight hug when he laughed and placed him on a tall shelf where his legs dangled freely. “Jalasanati?” (Are you finished?) Thorin raised his brow and crossed his arms, unable to keep the smile off his face, “Album astû?” (You will clean?)
Frodo paused and then his smile grew wider, “Kun, irak'adad!” (Yes, uncle!)
“That is good to hear,” He took him down from the shelf, setting him on the floor. The pair continued without further interruption and restored the pantry to how it was before Frodo’s cookie theft. Thorin led his nephew out of the pantry and turned to help him find a coat but was interrupted by the sound of cookware being used in the kitchen. He sent Frodo off to collect his things and then moved to the kitchen.
Bilbo stood at the counter with a pan in hand and a few slivers of ham in the other, rolling the oil in the pan across the iron before laying the meat evenly inside it and then placing it over the fire. The light from it sent his hair into golden flames of their own, and Thorin didn’t noticed Bilbo had turned around until he cleared his throat.
“Bilbo, I didn’t know you were-“
“Thorin, I wasn’t going to let Frodo wander about by himself for very long,” He smiled and turned back to the fire, which Thorin took as permission enough to approach and hook an arm around his middle, “I also noticed the very stern reprimand you gave Frodo for climbing on shelves to reach cookies he shouldn’t be eating yet.”
He tried to hide his wince against Bilbo’s hair and earnt himself an amused snort, “Not shelves, it was the potatoes. Knocked over the crate but they all looked fine when I put them back.”
“It’s lucky he’s not a malicious boy, he’s got us around his little finger,” He commented while he flipped the ham and eased back into Thorin, resting his weight against his husband’s chest while watching the meat. He didn’t stir when Frodo came running into the room but did chuckle when he was presented with an old tatty coat. His laughter warmed Thorin’s chest like his pride in Frodo had and he barely stopped himself from launching into a speech his nephew would be embarrassed by and his husband would call Soppy Nonsense. The smial was warm and his heart full, and later the other two would need to finish their chores but for now he could tug Frodo in and bear Bilbo’s eye roll as he held them both close.
Later that night, as snow fell outside and quietened the world, he smiled up at Bilbo and thought on how far they’d come, how different they were now. Time was a balm for his heart, but the company certainly helped.
