Chapter Text
The worst thing about being on the telly is that people (or perhaps publicists weren’t really people) expected you to enjoy being around other people. Dwalin doesn’t know how this stupid idea got started, but he wouldn’t mind being the one to end it. Hell, he doesn’t even know who half these people are, which is probably why he’s taken to hiding next to the buffet table.
At least this time it’s, thank fuck, not one of those stupid gala events where he needs to sit around and look like he’s not falling asleep. It’s just a promotional party their channel has put together to kick-off a new year of shows and series and rainbows and whatnot.
Technically it’s supposed to be an office party, but Dwalin is pretty sure that office parties are not supposed to be filmed and televised. Then again, that sounds like just the kind of brain-dead reality show some of the execs likes, so he wouldn’t be surprised to see it be a regular thing in the 9pm slot. Can’t be worse than whatever crap they’re currently having there.
At least his show actually teaches people something. Fine, it’s not like anyone is going to be giving him a Nobel Prize for showing people how to build shit that doesn’t immediately fall down on them, but the ratings are decent and they got the renewal so apparently he’s doing something right.
Some of the reviewers has taken to call him the Gordon Ramsay of home improvement, which Dwalin has chosen to take as being connected to his swearing and not that he’s an annoying little bugger who talks more than he actually cooks (or in Dwalin’s case, builds things). At least this reputation (especially when combined with a severe frown) is enough to keep most of the people away, and at least this food is good, Dwalin thinks as he supplies himself with another one of the little what’s its.
It’s some sort of bread, and there’s something brightly coloured on it, but all Dwalin really cares to know is that they taste delicious. And they are all his, because with television being what it is, there’s not exactly a rush of people wanting to stuff their faces. God forbid that they might end up gaining a pound and make a headline. Fucking crazy tabloids.
Earlier he heard a girl from one of the morning shows talk to somebody about her new diet; nothing but hardboiled eggs. Dwalin shudders when he remembered the almost manic expression the girl had been wearing when as she’d gone on about how good it made her feel while the man she’d been talking with had nodded as if it made perfect sense.
And Balin wonders why he wouldn’t go to these kind of things if not for there being a bloody clause about them in his contract…
“Is there something wrong with the food?” an anxious voice asks, and Dwalin wills his frown away to turn his head down to look at a little curly haired man he’d seen flitting about with plates throughout the evening. He’s not wearing the same type of clothes as the rest of the waiting staff, but perhaps he’s their boss or something.
Considering that he makes a pretty fine figure in the light coloured suit and green waistcoat that he’s wearing, Dwalin’s not going to complain.
"No, very good this," Dwalin rumbles to him. "Any more?" he adds, because when he looks down at the plate it’s empty.
The man beams. “Of course. Just wait a second.”
He rushes away, and if Dwalin’s gaze happens to track the man’s arse as he walks away… well, it’s a damned fine arse. Shame he’s not going to be able to ask him out for a drink, but trying to get with someone who’s getting paid to wait on him cut a little too close to other things for Dwalin’s taste.
Besides, his publicist was probably going to burst his eardrums if he tried to go with a guy when there were so many cameras around. Which on second thought might be worth it if that meant he got to yell back at Mister. ‘Being gay does not fit the image we are trying to give you’.
Fucking creep. If he hadn’t been hired by the channel Dwalin would have fired him long ago, and pretty soon he was going to have to give one of those starlet hissy fits and demand that something had to be done. As long as something actually got done, it would be worth it.
Out of the corner of his eye Dwalin saw a now familiar mop of curls bobbing his way. Waistcoat was carrying a new plate filled with more of the delicious little morsels and Dwalin smiled appreciatively, for more than one reason.
“No, no, wait,” Waistcoat admonishes when Dwalin reaches for them. “Just let me…”
Seemingly out of nowhere he produces half of a lemon and carefully squirts a bit of juice down on one of the morsels. “I couldn’t do this on the ones that had to be left lying around,” he explains as he hands Dwalin the result. “Leave them for too long and lemon juice just takes over everything else. But they’re better this way.”
Indeed they are, and Dwalin grunts happily as the tart flavour burst on his tongue chased by the more subtle taste of the brightly coloured stuff. It earns him another beaming smile and Dwalin takes a second to argue with himself over his morals about asking out someone who might not feel comfortable with saying no. Maybe he could just ask for the recipe instead, and then he could hire someone to make them. Or maybe he could just hire this guy. Food prostitution was a lot more morally neat than the regular kind.
“You make these?” Dwalin asks, already feeling fairly confident that he’ll get a positive reply. As such it’s a bit of a surprise when Waistcoats smile dims a bit and he glances away.
“Not really,” he hedges. “You see, I was not actually allowed in the kitchen. Insurance reasons in case of food poisoning or something like that. Which I’m sure is not actually a concern,” he hastens to add when Dwalin looks dubiously down at the bit of deliciousness that he’s holding.
“They’re not allowing their boss in the kitchen?” Dwalin asks.
“Oh, you think- I’m not-,” Waistcoat sticks out a hand for Dwalin to shake and Dwalin watches with interest how his own hand basically engulfs the other, especially when he realises that Waistcoat is doing the same thing, with a slight flush on his face. Accursed morals.
“Bilbo Baggins,” Waistcoat, apparently Bilbo, blurts eventually. “That is my name, nice to meet you..?”
“Dwalin Fundinson.” Dwalin carefully squeezes Bilbo’s hand and again laments his morals. He wouldn’t mind getting a chance to see if how far down that blush goes.
“Fundinson,” Bilbo murmurs, not taking his hand back. “Oh, you were the one who built the bed that looked like a dragon on that show! My nephew loved that, hasn’t stopped pestering his parents about it yet.”
The blush darkens slightly when the shorter man realises that they are now essentially holding hands, both having given up any pretence of shaking.
“Um, may I have my hand back?” he asks, glancing up at Dwalin through his eyelashes.
“Depends,” Dwalin says and affects a frown. “Are you willing to trade me for the recipe to the things I just ate?”
“My agent would want me to suggest that you buy my book,” Bilbo says with a teasing smile. “But I think something can be arranged. I do need this hand to-”
“Book?” Dwalin asks blankly.
“I, yes?”
“So you’re not working for the catering company?”
“No?” Bilbo replies, and while he sounds rather confused about it, it’s still a no. “I’d hate to sound like my own worst nightmare, but you still don’t know who I am, do you?”
Dwalin slowly shakes his head, and casually rubs his thumb over Bilbo’s knuckles. Hell, if he’s not working for the catering company, then maybe…
“We’re actually sharing an employer, and I’m on air at 8am on Sundays with Second Breakfast, and then on Thursday evenings with Teatime.” Bilbo winced. “And I’m terribly sorry for sounding as if I’m doing press. I’m brainwashed by too many interviews. And now I sound like a snob. Brilliant...”
Dwalin has a vague suspicion that he’s heard about both of these shows, but truth be told he doesn’t really watch a lot of television. That he ended up working with it was definitely by coincidence and not design.
“Sorry,” he shrugs, because it seems polite to apologise for not recognizing someone who is essentially a co-worker, but Bilbo just smiles at him.
“It’s completely fine. I didn’t really recognize you at first either. However, you are still holding my hand,” he points out, wiggling his fingers inside Dwalin’s grasp.
“So I am,” Dwalin agrees. “And since I’ve not seen any recipe I’d say that’s fair. But now it so happens that my terms have changed.”
“Oh?”
“I want the recipe, and if you don’t mind, I wouldn’t say no to your phone number.”
This time when the blush comes, it also spreads to the (unexpectedly pointy) tips of Bilbo’s ears and while that is rather fetching Dwalin can’t help but notice that no reply is forthcoming. He’s just about to drop Bilbo’s hand and make his excuses when the other man surprises him by takes a step closer.
This makes the height difference between the two of them very obvious, and Dwalin hopes that Bilbo coming closer does in fact mean that he’s not intimidated. The pleased smile that he’s wearing does seem to be a point in Dwalin’s favour.
“But then you get two things,” Bilbo murmurs. “And I only get my hand back.”
“Seems like a good hand,” Dwalin says, squeezing lightly. “Don’t you think it’s an even exchange?”
“I don’t know…” Bilbo looks doubtful. “But if you give me your phone number as well, then we’ll have a deal.”
“Agreed,” Dwalin says quickly (too quickly, good thing Balin isn’t around to smirk at him) and fishes up his phone from his trouser pocket.
“I may need both my thumbs for this,” Bilbo points out when Dwalin hands him the phone. “Or we’ll be here all night as I’m not a very good texter.”
“It better not be a trick,” Dwalin warns when he finally releases Bilbo’s hand, but he smiles when he does it, and Bilbo smiles back, so it would seem as if the joke got across.
“No trick,” Bilbo promises. “However, I don’t happen to carry any recipes on me… Can I give you an IOU? To be filled at a later date? I promise I’m good for it.”
Right, Dwalin is definitely firing his publicist, because it’s all he can do not to bend down and kiss the pretty little smirk aimed his way. He’s not going to be able to hold out for very long if this actually works out, and if Smaug is going to have an issue with that, he can just go and fuck himself.