Chapter Text
Every writer needs a good coffee shop. He couldn't remember where he'd first heard the phrase exactly, but for whatever reason it had stuck with him like a not entirely unpleasant tune that had proceeded to nevertheless happily whistle away in his brain for the next week.
If he were honest with himself (which he wasn’t), Bilbo would admit it had been only that seemingly trite phrase that had led him to the present moment, hesitating outside of the bright storefront of At Your Service! Brewery. Tan walls were shaded by a green-and-teal striped awning that somehow managed to be simultaneously ghastly and endearingly quirky. The barn-style door’s only decoration was the shop’s logo: a take-away coffee cup sweeping a low bow to a cheerfully grinning, braided pastry. Bilbo found his eye being drawn to the axe that was slicing into said pastry, and was not sure if he should feel uncomfortable or not.
Well he was already here, was he not? No point in turning back now. Adjusting the strap of his laptop bag, Bilbo pulled the door marked Push, apologized to no one in particular when he stumbled over himself, inwardly cursed then hastened inside.
It was…odd, the interior of the place. Dim certainly, as there were no windows opening to the busy street outside. But it was almost a comforting dimness, smelling of baked goods and woodsmoke, and gently lit with low-hanging lights. The whole place had a rather woodsy look in general; a rare thing in the middle of such a bustling city. Seats were made of polished and smoothed tree stumps, the tables of thick slabs of the same wood. There weren’t many people inside, which was a bonus, and even better he recognized absolutely none of them.
Now, he had told himself that there were a great many factors that had contributed to his decision to seek out a nice coffee shop in which to work – as mentioned, Bilbo was not terribly good at being honest with himself despite being blunt with absolutely everybody else. He’d made noises about “a nice place away from home” (he lived with his parents still), “can’t get a decent cuppa anywhere these days” (his kettle was rusted and his coffeepot had suffered an unfortunate accident involving his young nephew and the cat), and “could do with a change of scene” (he’d lived in the same house for the last thirty-odd years). He needed the excuses, could cling to them if anybody gossiped, or worse came up to him and started asking prying questions.
If there was one thing Bilbo was not ever honest about (not even to others), it was his ardent desire to escape his burgeoning career as a professional landscaper and write fantasy stories until the end of his days. Honestly it was nobody’s business, barely his own really. So he’d begun to surreptitiously look up local coffee shops and cafés, little hole-in-the-wall bakeries even, until one of his rare friends had recommended this place to him.
“Are ye just gonna stand there lookin’ constipated, or can I get ye anything?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Some prune juice in yer cappuccino, perhaps? Ye look all stopped up.”
For a solid fifteen seconds all Bilbo could do was stare open-mouthed at the man behind the register, who was grinning most unrepentantly at him from underneath his slouch cap. He was clad in an old Dropkick Murphys t-shirt and blue jeans with holes starting at the knees. A small necklace of malachite pieces sat neatly around his neck, the dark green stones highlighting the creaminess of his smooth skin. One large hand was resting on his hip, cocked out to the side.
“N…no. No, I think not.” Bilbo found himself unconsciously leaning away from the man. “Just, uh –” He quickly glanced at the neat menu on the wall, felt a small flare of irritation at the sheer number of choices.
“If I might recommend somethin’?” Without waiting for his assent, the cashier turned to peer at the menu and made a show of twirling the ends of his trim moustache. He flicked his eyes back to Bilbo a moment, took in his sweater vest, button up, and slightly wrinkled slacks. There was a small, shiny spot on the bridge of his nose, the result of having his spectacles shoved repeatedly into place. “Seems t’me yer tired but not sleepy, are lookin’ fer a bit of a pick-me-up but nothin’ too sweet. Ye’ll want somethin’ bracing to chase those bad thoughts away and give ye enough energy t’work.” He scanned over the menu again, and turned to Bilbo with a bright smile.
“How’s a vanilla-apple latte sound? I’ll throw in an extra shot to keep yer brain a-chuggin’.”
“Alright.” It sounded tolerable enough, and in truth he just wanted to get to his writing. He’d drafted the first few pages the previous night, and was anxious to continue before his flow had a chance to run dry. “A medium one of those, please.”
“Anythin’ to nibble on?”
“No, thank you. Just the drink will do.”
“Yer a writer then?” The cashier nodded to the bag slung over his shoulder as he rung up Bilbo’s order. “We get a lot of ’em through here, eager young things all lookin’ t’write the next ground-breaking somethin’-or-other.”
“I – of course not. I haven’t time for such indulgences.” Unconsciously he straightened his sweater vest and pushed his glasses up his nose again. He handed a few crumpled bills to the cashier.
“There are worse vices, I’m sure,” the cashier replied, taking Bilbo’s heated assertion in stride. “Nothin’ t’be ashamed of. Yer not just here t’have a drink though, at least not to my eyes. What brings you to our fine, upstanding house of beverages?”
“Unless I’m much mistaken, that doesn’t matter so long as I pay for my order.” Shoving his change into the pocket of his slacks, Bilbo turned swiftly on his heel and so missed the momentary gleam in the cashier’s eye, accompanied by impressive dimples as the man’s grin deepened.
Choosing a small table tucked into an alcove near to the back of the place, Bilbo slid into the seat facing away from the door and surreptitiously dug out his laptop and notebook. A small black pen was laid next to the notebook, neatly divided into separate sections. He flicked over to the outline he’d scribbled out a few days ago as the screen flickered to life, skimmed through his notes for the first few chapters.
Glancing around to be sure no one was watching him, he clicked through to a set of password-protected files and opened the one simply marked Draft 1.
“‘There and Back Again’? Good title, that.”
Bilbo jumped, slamming the computer shut. He hadn’t even heard his drink being called out at the pick-up counter, much less the cashier coming to deliver it. Blushing, he turned to face the man.
“Ach, no need t’look like ye just got caught with yer hand in the cookie jar.” He set a steaming mug next to Bilbo. “Now if you need to dramatically spill yer drink for some reason, be sure to knock it outwards in a wide sweepin’ motion. It’ll help t’show what ye’re really feelin’ and ye needn’t ruin that pretty machine of yers.” He winked at Bilbo before sauntering back to the counter, a single braid swinging just past his wide shoulders.
Huffing a bit, Bilbo wriggled his own shoulders and took a sip of the latte. He was pleasantly surprised; the sweetness of the vanilla was very evenly blended with the tartness of the apple flavoring and the dusting of cinnamon on the frothy top. And the extra shot of espresso gave it just the right amount of kick.
He felt a small smile spread across his face, and found himself wondering how it was the cashier had known so easily what it was he’d wanted, needed to get himself going. It was even delicious enough that he might be able to forgive the man his unusual, untoward remarks.
The coffee was long since drunk and another mug had joined the first. The outline portion of Bilbo’s neat little notebook was no longer so neat, with hastily scrawled ideas and excitedly circled phrases littering the margins like autumn leaves. Bilbo had hardly moved but for a quick trip to the restroom some two hours ago.
He couldn’t recall when last he’d felt so vibrantly alive.
He sat slightly hunched over his work, fingers all but flying over the keyboard. And here he had thought the expository parts of his story would be the hardest to write, and altogether too dry as there was no real action to them. But it was pouring out of him, and he’d the first chapter nearly done already. Images and bits of dialogue were swirling through his imagination in a colorful cascade, fueling his world-building.
He sat back a moment, pushing his spectacles to the top of his head and scrubbing a hand over his eyes, which were admittedly becoming rather strained. Oh, but it was worth it, he thought. It was so worth all the waiting and angsting he’d endured before finally bullying himself into starting this project. He doubted anything much would come of it, but that was more than fine with him. He’d only ever wanted to do this for himself first.
He glanced around the shop, starting a bit when he realized he was the only one still seated. Two other men were standing, one with auburn hair and the other with silver-streaked black, chatting by the counter. When the cashier, the one with hair the color of dark chocolate, came through the door to the back the auburn haired one waved a scone at him with a chuckle.
“These may be your best scones yet, brother.”
“Oy, what’ve I told ye about nickin’ me pastries?” But the brown-haired one was grinning, enjoying the game. “Ye’ll ruin yer teeth if ye keep up eatin’ everything I bake.”
“Nonsense,” the other put on a look of mock affront as he took a healthy bite of the treat. “If these’re bad for my teeth then by extension they’re bad for the customers, as such I’m just doin’ the community a favor by sparing them from rampant tooth decay.”
Bilbo chuckled in spite of himself, but stopped short when the brown one looked his way.
“Mayhaps our friend the writer over there can settle this fer us.” He picked up another scone, tossed it in Bilbo’s direction. He caught it reflexively, raised his brows at the trio looking expectantly at him.
“It’s…very nice?” He faltered, not understanding. “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know what you lot are on about.”
The black-and-silver one shook his head, and gestured firmly with his hands, grunting a bit. Bilbo was not familiar with sign language, but whatever had been said had the auburn one roaring with laughter.
“That’s no way to speak of a customer,” the brown one chided lightly. “Ye’ll have t’excuse my idiot family,” he said to Bilbo as he crossed to his table, took the scone from his unresisting hand. “They tease everybody like it’s goin’ outta style, most of all each other. Bifur, that’s the geezer with the silver in ’is mane, said that y’must be as dense as this wee scone but that you wouldna taste nearly as sweet.”
“How delightfully graphic of him,” was Bilbo’s dry rejoinder. He was in just a good enough mood from his productive bout of creativity that he couldn’t be too mad. “You’ll have to inform him that he’s not my type anyway.”
To his great surprise the brown one’s eyes gleamed as he turned to sign Bilbo’s words to his cousin. The man looked satisfyingly surprised and the auburn one chuckled and slapped him on the back.
“Hang onto that one, Bofur,” he said, taking another bite of his treat. “He’s got a sharp tongue on him.”
“I should hope so.” Bofur turned back to collect Bilbo’s mugs and grinned at him yet again. Bilbo was beginning to suspect his face had frozen that way some time ago. “Hate t’do this t’you luv, but we officially closed ten minutes ago.”
“What?” He glanced at his watch. “Oh blast it all, I’ve missed supper!”
“Sounds more like a ‘bollocks’ situation then a ‘blast it all’ one t’me.”
Bilbo hardly heard him, preoccupied as he was with shoving his notebook and papers and laptop back into their bag. He’d missed supper and that meant he’d missed his time with his nephew. He’d never done that before. He hoped Frodo wouldn’t be too mad at him.
“I have to go. I have to see him,” he muttered to himself.
“Ah. Well, best not to keep the lad waiting.” Bofur put the cups on the counter and gently shooed Bilbo towards the door. “Enjoy yer night out, mister…?”
“Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. Good night, and thank you for the coffee.” He all but slammed the door behind him in his haste.
Bofur stared after him a moment, his smile no longer quite reaching his eyes. “We’re ever at yer service,” he murmured under his breath.