AN: Another short tidbit that my friend gave me the idea for :) Enjoy and let me know what you think!

Chopsticks

Erebor had once been a kingdom most renowned for its trade. Whilst their treasures circled Middle Earth so too had goods from the far reaches of the world reached it. However, it had been some years since Erebor had been at its height—as the Company were coming to realize. After all, during the restoration of the Kingdom, not even Balin's diplomacy could match the silver tongue of their Burglar.

"I'm starting to see it," Nori admitted one evening when their Burglar was once again absent.

It was a rare time that Bilbo was late to a meal—but, the Company had learned that he was quite overexcitable where it came to speaking to traders. Apparently, their kitchens were quite lacking in ingredients and cuisines—and their Burglar was set upon reversing such a grievous error.

"See what?" Ori queried, looking up from his book with a frown.

"How he survived," Nori replied, meeting the curious gazes of the rest of their Company.

"This wouldn't be the first time we overestimated him," Balin acknowledged with a thoughtful nod.

Bilbo himself was quite happy. Of course, family recipes were a prized secret, but Bilbo had been quite the charming faunt in his youth—and, perhaps Gandalf had a point when he'd suggested that Bilbo had a talent for theft. Still, it had only been a few recipes—here and there. Bilbo shook his head as he walked back up towards his rooms. It did not do to dwell on his irresponsible tweens, and he had won many a contest with his culinary skills. Now, the middle of February was fast approaching after all, and it simply would not do to fail to mark the coming of the spring with a true feast.

Since Erebor's restoration, the Dwarrow often claimed that he was a veritable master in the kitchen, but he'd barely cooked at all. At first, the supplies were short and there was no kitchen. Then, things got so terribly busy that he was needed elsewhere—mainly, to keep Thorin calm while negotiating with the elves. Therefore, the feast that the Dwarrow spoke of was the dinner at Bag End before their Quest.

That pitiful meal; however, had been nothing. Not really, a mere pittance compared to what he could create if given the warning and access to a full pantry. At that, Bilbo smiled again. A full pantry was exactly what he was cultivating, and wouldn't this be a February to remember when his Dwarrow got a taste of what he would make for them. He would bet that even Bombur hadn't tried what he was going to prepare for them—especially not since the dwarf hadn't even known of pizza—and what a simple delight that was! Just wait until they had sushi or a spicy curry.

Bilbo was still whistling to himself as he entered the room that the Company now gathered in for meals. It appeared that he was late, but one simply couldn't rush the sampling of fish—especially not at the grade it had to be for what he was planning.

"And there's our Burglar, you're late," Thorin's deep baritone froze Bilbo where he stood in the doorway to the room.

"Ah, erm, yes," all of the diplomacy that Bilbo had used in his earlier conversation disappeared. He shuffled his feet nervously and then had to remind himself that he was no longer in his tweens, and such behaviour was not acceptable by any stretch of the imagination.

"And what has kept you?" Dwalin asked, fixing him with a suspicious glare—though Dwalin found everything suspicious these days.

"Oh, nothing, just a bit of trade," Bilbo replied with a shrug. These Dwarrow might be the heroes of Erebor, but they were still the same Company who had appeared on his doorstep, and he would not stand at the edge of the doorway like some misbehaving faunt.

He entered the room, and took his customary seat by Fíli and Kíli, with a wink at the lads. They were not so young anymore, the Battle had aged all of them, but Bilbo was certain that his plan would gain a few smiles at least. After all, the Dwarrow still seemed to labour under the misbegotten theory that they were praising Bilbo's culinary skills and ability to be a good host when they 'raved' about the feast at Bag End. Seriously, though they had very false understandings, if that was ever to be considered a feast.

Bilbo sat and helped himself to food. He picked up the golden fork and frowned. Forks. They simply wouldn't do. At least, not for all of the dishes that he planned to serve. He hesitated then—frowning his displeasure at the utensil.

"Is something wrong?" Fíli asked with a frown of his own. It was only then that Bilbo realized that the whole Company was peering at his fork—as though the gold was not up to grade, or the craftsmanship was too poor.

"Wrong?" he repeated in a daze. "Oh, no, nonsense. Not at all, I was just thinking, well, haven't you any chopsticks in Erebor?"

The answer that night had been a resounding 'no,' which was promptly followed by Orí's question: "What is a chopstick?"

Bilbo had no idea just how much of a stir that one comment would raise. However, the next time that he entered the hall it was to find no less than thirteen pairs of oddly matched sticks at his placemat—and that exact number of hopeful Dwarrow.

From Fíli's pure gold pair to Dwalin's sacrifice of two throwing knives, the hobbit had to admit that there had never been a more special set of chopsticks. Therefore, it was all that he could do not to laugh when he beheld the assortment.

"Did you make me chopsticks?" he asked in mild surprise.

This was hardly the first time that they had been so thoughtful, but it still meant the world to him that his Dwarrow would do such a thing just to see him smile.

His question only brought on a lot of shuffling. Bilbo sat down to his plate and made certain that he used each set—giving positive and negative feedback on each. Of course, some were better than others. For example, he'd nearly sliced off his tongue with the two knives, but he had praised their sharpness, and ability to cut through his food—though, that would make it hard to actually pick anything up.

At the end of the meal, the hobbit had left, his arms full of the chopsticks that he saw as a gift—while the Dwarrow all looked on. They were not to be stymied.

At dinner that night, Bilbo had found himself explaining at some length about the history and origin of the eating utensil—or, at least he had started with that. Their conversation; however, soon dissolved into one about how he had once helped a particularly brazen Took cousin to steal a whole set by smuggling them in her hair. Bilbo had found the story particularly funny. The Dwarrow, it would turn out, had taken it quite literally.

That was how Bilbo had found himself rolling on the floor of their dining hall in a fit of laughter. He laughed so hard, in fact, that his stomach hurt and tears flowed from his eyes. In retrospect, he would realize such behaviour would be highly inappropriate, but to see his Dwarrow seated there looking like hedgehogs was simply too much. They had, in their loving way, taken his story to heart, and the new fashion around the Mountain was to be chopsticks—but not the kind that Bilbo had thought of. Rather, the Dwarrow had taken the moral of his story to be that chopsticks were the ideal form of hair arrayment.

Since settling in Erebor, Bilbo's travelling companions' wealth and prestige had become evident. It was not only the wealth that they accrued since winning back the Mountain—the contract had been clear about that. However, it was also their bravery, and it gained them new ways in which they could display their prestige—such as in the way that they wore their braids. Their hairstyles, that had already seemed so elaborate to Bilbo had easily tripled in their complexity as each dwarf was proud to broadcast his various accomplishments in the way that any other Dwarrow could see by his braids.

On this particular morning; however, Bilbo entered their dining hall to find that his Dwarrow had all crafted their own versions of chopsticks. Bifur, Bilbo was certain, as he passed the dwarf, had gone so far as to carve a replica of each of the Company into the stem of his chopsticks. Whereas Fíli's golden mane was even more gilded with his addition of pure gold chopsticks.

Bilbo really would swear he'd tried not to laugh, but then it had started, and he couldn't stop it. Indeed, he was still on the floor when Thorin arrived. He took a single look at his Company and then added his loud baritone to the medley. It hadn't taken long for the whole hall to be laughing. They had enjoyed that meal too, though Bilbo had apologized on numerous occasions for his appalling behaviour.

A month after the day when the chopstick hair decoration began Bilbo knew three things. First, that it was now all the rage to include chopsticks in one's hair. Second, he had a feast to be proud of. For the last week, he'd sequestered himself—refusing entry to even Fíli and Kíli and Ori. In private, he'd laboured away, and they would all have a feast to be proud of. And, third, that because of the way that even Thorin now wore a chopstick in his majestic mane, Bilbo too would consider growing his hair—for, it really was too cute how they'd all rallied.

In the days leading up to his planned feast, he had painstakingly written invitations to his Dwarrow in his very best handwriting—and with the gold pen and ink that had been gifted to him. Unsurprisingly, they had all promised to be in their dining hall at the appointed time. Therefore, Bilbo had asked for the help of a few servants and began to serve his feast.

Their eyes had gone wide as tray after tray of food was wheeled in. It was then that he felt ever so glad that he had his own kitchen in his apartment and a host of Dwarrow ready and willing to fetch him every ingredient he needed—even those fresh from the ships in what remained of Esgaroth.

"I have for you, on this eve of mid-winter," Bilbo proclaimed, "a feast to celebrate our life and our health, and the coming of spring in true hobbit fashion."

The Company had been very good about that too—incorporating hobbit traditions. Still, this particular event was Bilbo's feast, and his chance to give some sort of a gift to the Dwarrow who had become his family. They all beamed at him and clapped and cheered.

"Now this," Bilbo continued, "is a true feast, and what you ought to have been met within Hobbiton if a certain wizard had actually informed me of the Company I was to expect." Bilbo sighed theatrically, "all the same, if you can forgive a poor hobbit for failing to properly host you the first time, perhaps a fraction of this will allow me the chance to make it up to you." They all laughed at that—for Bilbo had truly done so much more for them than any feast, even his own, could ever speak for.

Without further ado, however, Bilbo began directing his servers. The feast had too many courses to count; however, the sushi was exquisite—and, finally, the Dwarrow understood Bilbo's own dismay at the lack of chopsticks. For this occasion, Bilbo had secured black wooden chopsticks that worked beautifully—or had looked so until they began snapping in the Dwarrow's strong hands. He had fretted; however, for only a minute, before chopsticks began to be removed from elaborate hair—the Company had all dressed especially formally for the event—and then the sushi eating resumed. Bilbo tactfully chose not to say anything when some rolls were devoured using hands, instead of any utensil. The art of the chopstick, he deigned, could be learned later if it had to be.

Overall too, the meal was a huge success—a feast for any hobbit to be proud of. The Dwarrow too felt particularly special for the way in which their hobbit had shared another of his traditions with him. None, however, was more pleased than a certain leader of the Company, and it was not lost on any of them when the hobbit in question received a fourteenth set of chopsticks—this pair made of mithril. They sat simply on his napkin on the morning after the feast—despite it having been only a few hours since they all parted.

Delicately, the hobbit took up his utensils, and ate his breakfast, a small smile on his lips, and the faintest of blushes in his cheeks whilst his King tried desperately not to yawn and consumed more coffee than food—a satisfied smirk resting on his own features.