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The late summer sun was bright and warm through the windows of Bag End, it's two inhabiters lounging about in the kitchen, with not much place to go nor much to do. It was a lazy season, it was. Lovely and lazy. But such things often led to restless hobbits.
"This is dreadful, uncle." Frodo sighed out through his nose, head tipping back boredly. His feet were propped on the table, in spite of it's impropriety, and his chair was leaned onto it's back two legs, supporting him precariously. "Surely there are some goings on, aren't there? Hobbiton can't be this boring all year 'round."
Bilbo puffed on his pipe as he considered. "There is the Autumn Fete. You could very well join the committee for that, as I do."
"But that's just all planning, isn't it?" Frodo complained, dropping his feet down to the ground, plopping his elbows on the table and setting his head between his hands. "I want to do something fun."
The older hobbit raised a brow. "Is that not fun?"
"Well, I—"
"I'm only teasing you, boy." Bilbo shook his head and smiled. "Well, there's lots about the festival you could prepare for. Dancing, food, ales… ah, the Gamgees often put in some of their finest turnips for the carving competition."
"Turnips? Carving?"
"Oh, yes." The older hobbit chuckled. "You know those turnips they grow. Big ones, they carve faces into it. Dear Mrs Hamfast Gamgee was always so brilliant at it, rest her soul. Her girls are… alright at such as well."
"Bilbo." Frodo huffed, then crossed his arms. "Well, I'm no good at carving. I can hardly hold a knife! I suppose, I could make some food."
"You could bake something." Bilbo supplied. "The Bolgers host a competition during the fete. It couldn't hurt, trying your hand at that."
"That's wonderful, Uncle!" Frodo leapt up, a grin splitting his face. "I'll do that, then. You've got books on that, haven't you?"
"Oh, somewhere in here." Bilbo raised a brow, eyes scanning the kitchen before he gave another little puff on his pipe. "I'll let you pick something out, and you can come get me if you need any help."
He slung his arms around Bilbo's shoulders in a quick squeeze, then flit around the kitchen in search of a cook book. Behind him, unknown to him, the older hobbit gave a long sigh and shook his head, frowning just a touch and putting his face back in his own book.
Frodo lounged on the hill, book in his lap as he flipped through the pages. So far, there was no bite at his interest. All of these recipes were good, sure, but everything was so dwarvish. He wondered if this was supposed to be part of that treasure Bilbo had brought back from his adventures, and if so, it was quite a bit silly to him. None of these dishes were to hobbit tastes. Bilbo rarely even cooked himself! No, that was usually himself or Daisy Gamgee's business. Bilbo only made meals when he had to host an event himself, and then he would still take to having Frodo slave along with him.
Not even a section for desserts. What a bother. How was he going to find anything good here? He huffed and stood, tucking the book under his arm and starting back down the hill to Bag End.
He passed by the Gamgee's place on Bagshot Row, by May hanging up some clothes to dry. The look on his face was apparently something quite sour. The poor girl looked up at him with those big hazel eyes of hers and tipped her head a bit to one side.
"Hullo, Mr Frodo! How goes it?"
"Morning, May." He sighed, shuffling his feet a bit. "What do you know about that Autumn Fete?"
"Ah!" Her eyes lit up, a smile gracing her face. "The Fete! Well, it's lovely, it is. 'Course you haven't been around so much to see it. It's such a party, all drinkin' and games. I quite like bobbin' for apples, myself."
"The Bolgers host it, do they?"
"Oh, aye! Folks from all around come!" She laughed delightedly. "The gentlehobbits usually don't bother themselves so much with the games. No offense, Frodo, sir. But we would be grateful to have you play and all."
"None taken," He smiled a bit back, quite amused. "What about that, er, baking competition, then?"
May's smile faded, just a touch, to something a bit more serious. "That," She started, voice lower. "Is certainly something the wealthy folk get into. It gets right vicious, sir."
"Vicious?"
"Oh, no blood drawn, none of that." She waved her hand a bit. "Say, Daisy joined up a few years ago, you see. She thought it would be good fun. But those gentlehobbit lasses can be cruel. Show you the sweetest smelling rose and tell you to pick it, only for it to be all thistles, if you catch my meaning."
Frodo nodded, crossing his arms. "So, I suspect she had a bad time with it, then?"
"She did," May nodded sagely. "We took up a couple carts with all our turnips and things on. Daisy made such a delicious trifle, Frodo, you should have been there to try it! It certainly was a beauty. But anyhow, this awful lass Agrimony Oakgund came and tipped the trifle right over onto Daisy! It was a horrid mess, and all her gentlehobbit friends laughed at poor Daisy. Lily Brown and Tom Cotton, bless them, cleaned her up and walked her home. But her poor ego had been so bruised, Mr Frodo, it took ages to convince her to start coming back to the fete."
A frown creased on his face. "Poor Daisy. That must have been horrid. No lass should be treated that way."
May nodded swiftly in agreement and hung up another garment, then paused. "Why do you ask, Mr Frodo? You don't… intend to participate, do you?"
"Well, yes, I do."
The hobbit lass stilled for a very, very long moment. Then she glanced up at him. "I don't mean to sound rude, Mr Frodo, but I don't know how to say this plainly. Only lasses participate in that sort of thing. I've never met a lad who did."
"Then I'll be the first." He shrugged.
"Mr Frodo." May's voice turned quite worried. "It's likely you won't even place. The same three win every year, and they don't do places beyond that. They just send off the other goods for the guests to have at."
"Then I'll just have to try my very hardest."
She sighed and turned back to her laundry. "I mean no offense, Mr Frodo, but you sure are stubborn as any old Baggins."
At that, Frodo grinned. He offered her a quick farewell and found his way back to his smial.
"Are you sure you haven't got any good baking books, Uncle?" Frodo called through the halls of the smial. It had been a week since he'd been by the Gamgee's and chatted with May, and even with all that time to think, he decided he wouldn't back down from the challenge. "I haven't found any in here!"
"Keep looking!" Bilbo called out from his study. "I'm sure you'll find them!"
Truthfully, Bilbo had done his best work to hide away all those books. He did not entirely trust Frodo with the ovens. He did not trust Frodo to enroll himself in such a competition without getting himself into trouble.
That is not to say he didn't believe the boy had a thicker hide than he seemed— though he looked rather fragile for a hobbit, he'd been through more than many of them had. Bilbo liked to think that was high praise, coming from himself, who had nearly died more times than he could count.
It was less Frodo that was the problem, and more that Rosamunda Took. She was not a rude woman by far, in fact Bilbo quite liked her and her knack for hosting, but she let many things slip by and was clearly biased when it came to her dear circle of friends. Bilbo did not forget the disgrace done to poor Daisy Gamgee, and how Rosamunda had sworn up and down the whole affair had been nothing but an accident. As if tipping over a barrel of the Gamgee's best turnips had been an accident. No one was that air headed, not even Agrimony Oakgund.
So maybe it was a bit cruel to hide away any of his cook books that had the good desserts in them, and drive Frodo a bit mad looking for them, but it was better than the poor boy being knocked down a few more pegs. It was certainly not something Frodo needed.
After a while, the boy came trudging through the hall to the study, his dark curls in a bit of a mess, sleeves pushed up his thin arms. Too thin for a hobbit, Bilbo silently bemoaned, the boy had put on a bit of weight since his arrival in Bag End, but he still looked more elf than hobbit. He wondered often if others thought he was starving the lad.
"Bilbo, I can't find anything." Frodo sighed, head hung. He did look quite distressed, and for that, Bilbo felt a twinge of guilt. "Are you sure you haven't got anything? Not even some spare notes hanging about? I just want to try my hand at it."
"I'm sorry, Frodo, my lad." He sighed and turned from his desk, patting Frodo's shoulder soothingly. "I don't think we've got anything to your tastes around here, or anything suitable for that competition. Perhaps you could try your hand at the carving? I'm sure Sam would be pleased to teach you—"
The boy's face twisted in frustration, brow furrowing and nose scrunching a bit. "I don't want to carve. That's— you make such a mess!"
"But you don't when baking?"
"That's different," Frodo insisted. "You don't have to make a mess when baking."
"You don't have to make a mess while carving." Bilbo pointed out. Frodo just pouted deeper. "Alright, alright. Perhaps you could send to Buckland for a baking book. I'm sure old Rory would be pleased to send down—"
Frodo snapped at that, voice raising to something high. Bilbo knew, there would be no reasoning with the boy at this point. "I don't want to bake something from Buckland, Uncle! I want to bake something from Hobbiton!"
There was a gentle knock on the wall of the smial, and both of the Bagginses eyes shot up. There stood Sam Gamgee, the book of empty pages Bilbo had given him to practice his letters in held close to his chest. He looked quite startled, eyes big and brown and round, innocent as a milk cow's. Frodo's posture went just a bit more rigid, hands finding each other and firmly entwining in front of him.
"I'm sorry to bother," Sam mumbled, his cheeks going a dash pink. "It's just, erm… you usually teach me my letters around this time, Mr Bilbo. I can come back later if—"
"No, no." Bilbo quickly interjected, waving at Sam to come closer. "I can always make time for your letters, Samwise. We'll talk later, Frodo."
Frodo scowled, but nodded politely at Sam and slouched his way back out of the study. Sam then looked up at Bilbo, concern etched on his features.
"Well, is Mr Frodo alright?"
Bilbo scoffed lightly. "The lad is fine. He's got it into his head that he'll be participating in that baking competition for the Autumn Fete."
"Aye," Sam piped, a tiny smile crossing his face. "May told me, she did. I think he's got a chance. You have his scones all the time, Mr Bilbo, they're delicious, aren't they?"
"Indeed, they are." He groused. "And that's part of the problem. Alright, Sam. Let's start a new page in that book of yours, shall we?"
Frodo stared longingly out of the window in the kitchen, perched by it, cheek resting in his fist, elbow on his knee. He liked Hobbiton, really, he did, but at times like this he missed Buckland and Old Rory and Menegilda and Saradoc and Esmeralda— oh, and Merry, especially. Dear Merry, who at a time like this would be egging him on to go knocking on the doors of each and every house in Hobbiton and Bywater and asking for their best recipes for cherry pies.
He sighed and slumped a bit, feeling utterly defeated. There was no hope, was there? It's not like some magic elf from Bilbo's stories was going to come to him, all shining gold hair and starlight eyes, cradling a book of the very finest recipes from their own elvish kitchens. He had not many friends in Hobbiton, not yet, at least, and he wasn't due a visit from the Tooks nor the Brandybucks until Yule. What a joke, that was. He was all alone, with nothing but Bilbo for company.
Well, Bilbo wasn't so bad. He supposed they were quite alike. That was the maddening part about it. Anyone would go mad if they were stuck with an older, stranger version of themself, who kept around books written in writings no one else could understand and rambled on about dragons and big folk. But Bilbo was also very kind, and very sweet to him. Never even gave him a caning— though he supposed he was a bit old for that, at this rate.
When Frodo glanced up from his musings, he caught the familiar form of one Samwise Gamgee making his way up the path through the garden, looking oddly spiffy. He knew, for one, that the Gaffer and Sam were supposed to have the day off. Maybe Sam was coming around to practice his letters again?
Frodo hopped up and scuttled to the door, opening it up before Sam's fist even rapped against the wood. The younger hobbit straightened up, soft brown eyes catching onto the elder, his blonde curls a slight gold in the light of the sun. A book in his hands.
"Hullo, Mr Frodo."
"Hi there, Sam." Frodo blinked. "Bilbo's out, if that's who you're looking for. He's off at the market…"
"Er, no, sir." Sam adjusted himself, hands folding behind his back like a schoolboy meant to recite. "It was you I was lookin' for. May told me you, er, were looking to take part in that competition during the fete…"
A long sigh escaped Frodo's lips. "Indeed, I was."
Sam then handed over something. A large book, bound in an old dusty leather, with yellowed pages. "We was looking through my Gammer's things, you see, and er… found this. I thought to myself, maybe Mr Frodo could use it."
Frodo found himself taking the book with the utmost care, gently turning it over in his hands. There was no title, but when he opened the book, it was indeed recipes. When he turned the pages, it was dessert, upon dessert, the pages a bit stained. His eyes snapped up to Sam, who was still standing there awkwardly, hands fidgeting behind his back.
"Sam, this is your mother's."
"Yes," The young hobbit replied, his face going a touch pink. "And my da' would thrash me if somethin' happened to it. So, if you could, make sure it gets back in one piece, sir?"
"Sam," He breathed, lips curling up. "Surely you're not. Someone like Daisy could do much better with this."
"Aye, Daisy's done it before. She's… she's no gentlehobbit, Mr Frodo." Sam admitted quietly. "And she is the best cook I know. I figured, with your standing, you'd have a bit better of a chance."
Without a thought, he ducked forward and threw his arms around Sam's shoulders, pulling him in tight. Sam did not fight, in fact, he eased into the hug after a few moments and gave a light squeeze back, before they released each other.
Oh. Sam had such a lovely smile. Like starlight, maybe. "Thank you, Sam. If I win, it'll be all thanks to you."
The flush deepened on Sam's face. "Oh, no, no sir— you're the one doing all the work here, for that!"
"There would be no work to be done without you, Samwise Gamgee." Frodo laughed. "You've saved my tail, you have. You're such a dear."
Sam flushed even deeper, and turned away. "Aye, I suppose. None's as sweet as you, though, sir. Er— those— sweets you'll be making. See you tomorrow, then!"
Up the path Sam raced, and Frodo stood quietly, feeling odd and like his skin was buzzing where he'd hugged the younger hobbit.
No matter. He had just been given the key to his success. Now was the time to get to work!
Bilbo groaned as he stumbled out of bed, head pounding and eyes sandy with sleep. He pulled his robe over his sleeping clothes and trudged his way towards wherever the racket was in the smial. It was too bloody early for this, and he'd had a lovely night in with quite a few lovely glasses of wine, but now he was paying for it with rubble bouncing in his brain anytime he moved or so much as looked towards the light. Certainly worse than getting clobbered by one of Dwalin's axes…
"THERE BETTER BE NO DWARVES IN MY KITCHEN!" He howled, because truthfully, if there was he would be kicking them out on their behinds.
"No dwarves, Uncle!" Called a voice back. Just Frodo, sounding a bit strained. Blast it, had something happened to the boy?
Bilbo quickened his step, nearly tripping over the belt of his robe as he hurried to tie it up. He followed the noise to the kitchen, and there stumbled upon…
Frodo, bent over the counter, sleeves up to the middle of his upper arms, donning an apron and utterly covered in flour. There were multiple bowls in front of him, one filled with some type of batter, the other pitted cherries, and the other whipping cream.
"Frodo!" Bilbo gaped, jaw dropped. He hadn't seen his kitchen in such a state since— well, there was no need to rerun that in his mind, he had plenty. But for Frodo Baggins to leave his kitchen disarray? "You've made a mess! What is this!?"
"Tipsy cake, Uncle!" Frodo chirped, sounding very pleased with himself. "With syllabub!"
"Well— well… just… remember to clean up." Bilbo sighed. Looking over the mess, watching Frodo work like he'd never seen the boy work before, whisking together some eggs and flour. "…Would you like any help?"
"Oh, sure! If you could just juice some oranges and cut some more cherries, and…"
The older hobbit got himself to work, feeling quite shocked still. Oh, well… he would certainly pay poor Daisy extra for cleaning this up.
Rosamunda Bolger lived in a very nice smial on the closer edge of Budgeford, and the trek was horrid, but Bilbo made it. That was to say, by pony and not on foot. Never again would he walk anywhere on foot, not if he could handle it. She greeted him warmly, with a little kiss on the cheek and a quick hug, and escorted him to their very nice sitting room. All proper, all around a nice spot.
"Mr Bilbo!" A voice called to him, familiar. There was Fatty Bolger, cradling a cup of tea. That boy came around often times to keep Frodo company.
He gave a polite nod in response. "Fredegar. How are you, then?"
"Oh, very well! How's Frodo settling in?"
Bilbo restrained a scoff. "Frodo has been settling in for the better part of a year, Fredegar. It's good of you to keep an ear out for him, I suppose."
Fatty blushed and retreated deeper into the smial with his tea. Rosamunda and himself took their seats. As any gentlehobbit should, he poured out her tea and slid it over on the delicate porcelain saucer in which she served it. He was used to coming by for planning and things that frankly shouldn't be his business as a well to do hobbit.
"What brings you by, Mr Baggins?" Rosamunda blinked up at him, lifting her cup to her mouth. "I hope all is going well down at Bag End."
"Oh, yes. Quite well." He cleared his throat. "Actually, I came to speak about the fete."
"Oh?"
"Yes." He steeled himself, trying not to wince as the words left his mouth. "My dear cousin, Frodo, my heir. He wishes to participate in your baking competition."
Rosamunda stilled with the edge of the cup pressed to her lips. "...Pardon me?"
"I said, Frodo Baggins wishes to participate. And I intend you to place him well."
"Frodo Baggins is not a woman."
"He is not," Bilbo agreed. "But he wishes to participate nonetheless. He is quite skilled in the kitchen as any good host should be. It has never been barred by sex before, has it?"
"No, but--"
"Precisely! So, he will be joining. And you will consider him for a place."
A scowl crossed the Bolger's face. "Bilbo, you are a dear friend and a lovely hobbit,"
"Why, thank you!"
"But you have certainly gone mad if you think I would place Frodo. Not only is he a man, but he has never participated before. I trust your judgment, but he has not won my favor."
Bilbo shook his head. "But your three girls have?"
Rosamunda's scowl deepened. "Now, Bilbo..."
"Frodo is more than capable, and quite overqualified. He's been working at this for nearly three weeks now. Come, Rosamunda, see a bit of reason. It's hardly a game if you let the same three win each year."
"Three weeks?" Her eyes sparked with surprise. "He is certainly passionate, then, isn't he?"
"He is, indeed. He wishes to please, the boy does. And it's his first fete, you could at the very least consider."
Rosamunda sat back, brow furrowed as she thought it over. Her expression grew quite stony, quite hard, and then she looked back up. "Bilbo, I can not. It would suffer the integrity of the competition to have a man compete, and to win."
"Are men somehow better at baking than women?"
"No! I think very well they are equal in--"
"So, consider Frodo."
"I will not." She said finally.
Bilbo sighed and stood. No use arguing with a hard headed Took such as Rosamunda. He pat his pockets and headed towards the door. Then, an idea popped in his head. "I do appreciate you for humoring me, Mrs Bolger. It would be a shame, for some dwarves to turn up on your doorstep."
"...What?"
"Oh, you know." Bilbo whistled a bit aimlessly. "Dwarves. Big ones. They're quite fond of Frodo, if you haven't heard. They'd be distraught at hearing of his loss, after knowing that the boy has been working so hard. I'd tell them off, if only they'd listen to me."
"Dwarves?" Rosamunda echoed, voice a bit high. "Dwarves, you said?"
"Indeed. Nasty, messy buggers. Well, have a nice evening, then!"
With a look of pure shock on her face, the woman waved weakly as Bilbo headed out the door, and shut it behind him with a rattle and an audible slide of a lock. Maybe, just maybe, he'd gotten Frodo a bit more consideration.
Frodo desperately fought the urge to bite his nails, to pace about, or more simply just to bolt.
The fete was lovely. Lots of fun, in fact. He'd done quite a bit of running around with Fatty, bobbed for apples and got his hair into a dripping mess, and now had to stand tall and sentry as Rosamunda Bolger made her rounds about the tables, a pair of spectacles resting on the edge of her nose.
"Calm down now, boy." Bilbo tutted beside him, settled into a chair. "If you keep fretting like that you'll startle the icing off your cake."
It was a good cake. A triple layered strawberry and cream upside down cake. But was it a good enough cake to win? He lifted a hand to his mouth, on instinct about to sink his teeth in around his nail, before Bilbo swatted his arm.
"Did you hear what I said, Frodo?" His uncle grumbled.
"Yes, I did." He sighed, wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers. "Can't help myself from being a tad anxious, though, can I?"
"Oh, you'll be fine."
He certainly hoped so.
It wasn't long before Rosamunda found her way to their table, inspecting with a furrowed brow. The look on her face was clearly one of weary acceptance, and behind her trailed a few younger girls Frodo hardly recognized but from his occasional trips to the Dragon.
"Hello there, Mrs Bolger!" He chirped, agonizing at the strain of politeness in his voice. "How are you, today?"
"Quite alright, Master Frodo." She nodded her head politely, shooting a glance at Bilbo before walking past them to where his cake sat on the table. "And what have we got here?"
"A sponge upside down cake with strawberries and cream, three layers." He recited, anxiously lacing his hands in front of him, and now urgently fighting the desire to bite his nails.
Rosamunda let out a hum of consideration, gesturing flippantly with his hand. Frodo obediently cut her a piece, hoped his hand wasn't shaking to visibly, and handed it over to her on a little plate. Her eyebrows raised when she took a bite, and he hoped that meant something good or at least neutral.
"Thank you, Frodo." She said finally, and moved on. He sighed and let his shoulders relax.
Frodo fidgeted with his hands, and when he looked up, the hobbit lass from the table next to him was staring. She had curly brown hair tied up in a braided bun, a smart brown dress, and a sharp face.
"You must be Master Frodo Baggins," She smiled at him, but it seemed quite snakish.
"That is me," He extended a hand politely. "Miss?"
"Oakgund. Agrimony Oakgund." Agrimony gave him a smile, and his heart plummeted. "You're Master Bilbo's heir, aren't you? I've heard some talk about you, out and about."
"Ah… well, I've heard some talk about you."
That was the wrong thing to say. Her face twisted into a little pout.
"What kind of talk?"
Frodo swallowed. "Good things, of course. Anyway, it was very nice to meet you, Miss Agrimony." And with that he swept himself off to the other side of the table, busying himself with chatter to Bilbo, who merely raised a brow unseriously.
"You didn't tell me we were next to her!" He whispered sharply, and his Uncle shook his head.
"What was there to say? Would you rather kick up a fuss and move?"
Frodo huffed, but Bilbo was right. There was no need to cause a scene. What would that make him look like? And while he'd heard stories about this girl, it wasn't right for him to treat her poorly based on tales. Nevertheless, he kept catching the lass shooting looks at his table, far too smug for his liking.
It wasn't much later that Rosamunda Bolger took her place behind her little podium, and all the voices of the hobbits died down. She cleared her throat, adjusted her spectacles, and began to speak.
"I will not bother you all with a speech." She said simply. "I will just get on with it. In first place, we have Ingunde Puddlefoot with her sticky toffee pudding…"
There was a smattering of applause from somewhere in the clearing, some happy exchanges of words and well wishes, and Rosamunda continued.
"In second place, Belinda Longburrow."
A bit more cheering. Frodo stood anxiously, wringing his hands.
"And lastly," Mrs Bolger sounded almost pained, "In… third place, Frodo… Baggins."
Frodo stilled. There was no silence at his name. The clearing was utterly silent. Eventually, after a grueling few heartbeats, Bilbo began to slowly, slowly clap beside him.
Frodo's face burned. Nobody else was happy for him.
In fact, beside him, Agrimony let out a sharp squeak of anger.
"Are you serious? Are you serious!?" The hobbit lass howled, and everyone seemed to duck away. "You let Frodo Baggins win!? FRODO BAGGINS!"
Bilbo just smiled. "Perhaps you are just not… good enough, dear."
Frodo's jaw dropped. Agrimony's face went red. Before anyone could tell what was happening, the table with Frodo's cake was upended and flung, and both Bagginses were covered in strawberry and cream upside down sponge cake.
"Oh, Frodo… don't pout…" Bilbo spoke to him gently. They were sitting in the kitchen of Bag End, wiping themselves clean of the strawberry and cream. "You won third place. Isn't that wonderful?"
"Yes, but now we're covered in muck." He bemoaned, scrubbing his hands. "And no one seemed happy that I'd won. Not even Fatty."
"He was just surprised, Frodo-lad, I'd sure." The older hobbit reassured him. "If it counts for anything… if it counts for anything, I'm proud of you."
Frodo stilled. Bilbo was proud of him.
When was the last time someone had been proud of him?
A small smile crossed his face, and he turned, sweeping Bilbo into a hug. "Thank you, Uncle."
"Ah… don't mention it." Bilbo gently pat his back. "Er… perhaps wait to hug me again until we're cleaned up."
Frodo laughed and released him. "Yes— yes, alright. But thank you."
Bilbo shook his head, his lips graced with a fond smile. "Go fill up the bath, would you? My bones ache after sitting around all day."
"Alright, Uncle." The younger hobbit began towards the bathroom, then paused. "Would you like any cake, then?"
A proper laugh left Bilbo's gut, and he shook his head, hobbling off down the hall.