Work Text:
There were a number of odd things Bofur got up to. It was only to be expected, really, of an unabashed dwarf living among hobbits. As Bilbo was more than a little odd himself since his Adventure, he’d adjusted to Bofur’s insistence on a minimum of two meat dishes at every meal and his continued confusion on the appropriate way to celebrate birthdays (he was forever disappointing their neighbors by insisting birthdays were for mothers, and sending a delicate hand-made gift along to her rather than handing them out in proper hobbit fashion to all and sundry), among other eccentricities.
But there was one habit of Bofur’s that Bilbo simply could not accept:
Ice-skating.
Every winter, Bilbo’s dwarf took complete leave of his senses (and as a dwarf he had precious little to begin with, thank you!), slapped sharpened blades on his boots, and started gliding on the surface of the lake with only a thin layer of treacherous ice keeping him on top!
“You have lost your mind!” Bilbo announced the first time he saw this (utterly unacceptable!) behavior.
Bofur glided in an elegant circle, completely at odds with his usual dwarfish stomping about. “It’s perfectly safe.”
Bilbo’s nose twitched in rising agitation. “It’ll crack!”
“I checked the ice, it’s a proper thickness, don’t you worry your curly head about it.”
“You’ll drown.”
“I can swim!” Bofur twisted and started gliding backwards like some sort of deranged bird. “And so can you, come to that, thanks to me.”
“Then you’ll freeze!”
This perfectly reasonable assertion earned only a derisive snort. “Dwarves don’t freeze,” he said, an obvious lie where frozen lakes were concerned, but Bilbo chose not to keep banging his head against this particular rock wall. Instead, he threw his hands up, scrunched up his nose, and declared himself finished!
Bofur cheekily waved goodbye as he performed a little hop on his blades.
----
Winters passed, and Bofur’s strange desire to court death became just one more idiosyncrasy, filed away with his annual tradition of ordering in strong dwarvish ale from Ered Luin every Durin’s Day and getting half of Hobbiton utterly frozzled down at the Green Dragon. Bofur did it, Bilbo knew he did it, they both pretended Bilbo didn’t.
These little compromises were necessary in a relationship between a dwarf and a hobbit.
It worked well enough until the first year Bofur and Bilbo decided to borrow Bilbo’s young cousin Frodo from Brandy Hall for the entire month of the winter festival. The lad was having some troubles growing up in the wild bustle of the Hall since the loss of his parents, and they thought some quiet and attention would do the boy good. They were right, as after only a few days Frodo was running wild as a hobbit child ought, chatting with the neighbor children and gaining a near shadow in little Samwise Gamgee, once Bilbo assured the Gaffer the lad was no bother.
Frodo took especially well to Bofur, and Bilbo’s dwarf would disappear with the lad from time to time. Bilbo didn’t give it a great deal of thought. After all, Frodo was young, and a fair bit noisier than Bilbo was sometimes in the mood for (“a grump” Bofur was known to proclaim him, with whiskery kisses to follow), and he appreciated the break.
But then came the afternoon they missed tea.
And Bilbo had to go traipsing after one set of boot prints, one set of boy-prints, and one little set of Sam-prints in the snow, and it slowly dawned on him where he was going.
“He wouldn’t!” Bilbo informed the peaceful trees, but of course. Of course he would.
And he was.
Bofur was on the ice, skates in place, and he had put – he had put shoes on Frodo and Sam.
The Gaffer was going to kill Bilbo.
“BOFUR BAGGINS!”
Bofur glanced up from the pair of pink cheeked, laughing hobbitlings grabbing his hands. “Ah, Bilbo!” he said, all on a grin, but he knew. He knew he was in trouble. Bilbo saw it in his mustache. Bofur could try and hide his emotions all he wanted, but the mustache always gave him away.
“You will get both those children off that ice immediately!”
Sam squeaked and hid behind Bofur’s leg, but Frodo, well.
Frodo pouted.
Frodo, who had been in a haze of lost depression for over a year, who didn’t seem to fit in his own skin anymore, who kept his eyes down and didn’t react to anything, Frodo poked out his lower lip so far that a bird could have nested on it, and whined, “But Uncle Bilboooooo!”
And Bilbo melted.
Bofur, who knew Bilbo’s levels of kind-to-grumpy as well as he knew songs and tales, smiled warmly and said, “It’s safe, Bilbo. The ice is good and solid, and both lads have gotten used to having the skates on.”
Sam peeked out, his nose bright pink from the cold.
He would definitely tell his mother about this adventure, and then Bell would kill him, which was even scarier than Hamfast.
But.
Bilbo sighed. “You’re having fun?” he asked.
Frodo grinned, a beaming smile from ear to ear that was his mother reborn and returned to the world for one fleeting moment. “It’s amazing! I can go so fast! Like flying!”
“Well.” Bilbo huffed and humphed and curled his fingers. “I’ll just stay here and keep an eye on you, to make sure.”
“You could join us,” Bofur offered.
If a glare could set a dwarf on fire, Bilbo’s would.
“Ah then,” his dwarf said, but he was grinning, and he winked as he skated away, dragging the little Hobbits along behind him.
Frodo’s laughter wafted through the air over Sam’s shy giggles, and Bilbo thought about, just perhaps, seeing what he could do about keeping that laugh around for a while longer than planned.