Disclaimer: The Hobbit, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.

Author's Note: Written as a fill for a prompt on the hobbit-kink meme.

The Sharing and Keeping of Fur Hats

I.

I have never known any other place but here on my perch, ever since that day which began with laughter and light and ended in screams and fire. For decades it has been rough greying hair, pipe smoke, and a melody dreaming of home surrounding me, familiar and comforting. This is my place.

We travel far today, making for a strange place, Hebbtion, or something like that. Despite my master's brisk pace and merry laugh, he is worried. His cousin's gaze becomes more lost, emptier as the day wears on.

"Bifur?"

The dwarf does not react.

"Bifur?" Bombur tentatively touches his friend's sleeve.

Nothing.

Master's growing worry rolls over me and I shiver. It has been a long time since his cousin has been like this—

I gasp as, unexpectedly, I am lifted up into the air and moved to rest on Bifur's head, mindful of the dreadful axe bit. It feels so strange, different up here, to clearly see master's face for the first time since the day I met him. But I focus on Bifur, settling down on his head. I sense him begin to relax, returning to the present, growing aware of and recognizing his family about him. And I sigh in relief.

II.

"Aaaachoo!"

The loud sneeze causes me (and few of the other dwarves) to jump in surprise.

"Bless you!" the little hobbit calls back from farther up the line.

Master turns to look behind him, and I see the tattooed, bald dwarf called Dwalin mumble a thank-you in embarrassment, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. A strong gust of wind threatens to blow me from master's head, but he grabs one of my floppy ends and holds me in place. He drops back to walk with the large dwarf who silently nods to him in greeting.

The silence among our unusual trio grows nearly comfortable (Dwalin marching purposely on, master tilting his head occasionally to glance up at him, and me calming my nerves) by the time I reel with dizziness as I travel from master's head to Dwalin's in an instant. His grunt of surprise matches my own thoughts. And I am sure we stare at master like he has lost his wits. He merely grins widely at both of us.

"I've heard it is easy to get sick when out in the cold with one's head bare. And we do not wish that, not with how far we have to go. Keep me hat for a while. It will help ye to stay warm and shake yer chill," he explains. And with that he promptly moves to catch up with his family up ahead before Dwalin can voice a protest or I beg him not to leave me alone with the intimidating warrior. (Not that he would hear me anyway...)

I feel very awkward on my perch, bouncing lightly from side to side but in no danger of falling. My gaze longingly follows master's back. Yet my attention is drawn elsewhere when large, rough fingers cautiously run along my brim, tickling, and I fight the sudden urge to giggle. The fingers retreat and I wonder if perhaps this is not as bad it could be.

III.

I eye the three young lads suspiciously as they approach master seated by the campfire. Over the past few weeks I have often caught them staring at me and I have been on guard. For what, I am not sure. But this may be it, and I tense up.

"Mister Bofur, we have a question." The lad who often is busy with his books and scrolls seems to be the spokesperson for the group after being not so subtly nudged by the others.

"Hmm?" master hums, turning his gaze from watching the hobbit make some repairs to his waistcoat to face fully the three dwarves.

"We were—"

"You see," the dark-haired dwarf with barely any beard, making me think of a dwarfling – a very big one – jumps in, face lit with interest, "we have been discussing which of us would look the most funny wearing your hat."

What?! I think, feeling greatly offended. I am by no means a funny hat, thank you very much; on the contrary, I am quite good looking, if I do say so. I would give that young 'ne a piece of my mind if I could. Instead of soothing my wounded pride, though, master chuckles lowly and I bristle. Is no one on my side tonight?

"Were ye?" master asks, and I hear the smile in his voice.

"Kili and Fili think I would look the funniest. Less dignified compared to them," Ori, the one with the books, explains with a sigh. Glancing at the two brothers, he receives confirming nods and impish grins. He rolls his eyes in return.

"Hmm," master hums in concentration, head moving to look from one dwarf to another. "Well," he proclaims decidedly and stands. "Shall we see?"

Thank you, master, I think grumpily, resigned as he takes me off his head to place me on Ori's.

"Oh," he breathes, growing still.

"Oh," Fili and Kili chorus, wide-eyed.

I glare as master beams at each of us in turn after critically studying my new perch for a long moment.

"Actually, I think it looks very well on ye, Mister Ori," he states with a smile. "On a more dignified dwarf it would not suit quite as much." He winks.

"T-t-thank you, sir!" The lad starts to take me off, but master's wave of the hand stops him; he trots happily over to his brothers to show me off, and I do not know whether to feel embarrassed or flattered.

IV.

It is damp, drafty, and cold in the cave in the mountain where the company halts for the night after that frightening adventure with the stone giants. I am still terrified and trying to calm myself down. Never do I wish to go through something like that again. Nor do I wish that on master. Such fear and helplessness I have not sensed from him until tonight.

First, he was separated from his brother and cousin on the giants' knees and feared them lost. Then he was unable to find the hobbit among them when all were reunited; he grabbed Bilbo's hand before he plummeted, but was not able to lift him to safety on his own. Master was so still and silent as Thorin's angry words spilled forth like arrows, and the pale halfling trembled beside him.

Now Bilbo has settled in a corner away from the company, and the others pass by as though he is invisible, quietly setting up for the night. Only master sneaks glances at him while he puts down his bedroll. His self-loathing is so fierce it nearly warms me. Not for the first time do I catch the faint cursing and scolding in his native tongue for not doing or saying anything. To turn his back on one of the company like the others as though he is suddenly a stranger… He slams his fist down on his bedding.

I wish I could ease his anger, tell him I do not despise him for his actions. But I understand his feelings. He has grown quite fond of the hobbit, taken him under his wing, watched out for him, has long considered him as part of the family. Tonight he did not do anything, though. He did not stand up to Thorin. He did not offer any comfort and encouragement to Bilbo in the immediate aftermath. Why, he had not even been able to protect him during the encounter with the stone giants. Had Bifur or Bombur been in Bilbo's place, master believes he would have acted much differently.

Master sighs heavily and I sense his anger slip away, replaced with regret and sadness. His head bows and I tilt forward, wishing to comfort somehow. Absently he reaches up to push me back, and his fingers linger on my brim for a long minute, almost like he is trying to reassure me in turn.

His hand stills as he looks once more at Bilbo, and I sense the wheels turning in his mind. Wearily he gets to his feet, then walks purposely and nervously over to the hobbit seated with his face to the wall.

Yes, I agree, not minding as I am jerked off master's head.

Carefully, quickly I come down on Bilbo's wild curls and pointy ears; at the same time master gently presses one of the creature's shoulders. By the time Bilbo whirls around, stunned, master is nearly back at his bedroll. The hobbit does not say anything, does not go after master. Only simply, slowly he traces my floppy ends with his hands. He is sorry, so deeply sorry. Please forgive him, I will him to grasp what my being here conveys. I pray he understands.

V.

I feel very out of sorts by the time Bilbo finally releases master from his barrel, with my damp fur sticking up every which way. At least I am drier compared to master who collapses on the bank with his companions and attempts to catch his breath. We made it, thanks to the hobbit.

Eventually master sits up and looks around. The others are still lying down. Except Thorin. The prince stands farther up the bank, glaring at the thirteen empty barrels, looking like a drowned rat, soaked from head to foot. Absently he plucks at the fur on his coat – a habit of his when he thinks deeply. His motions grow faster and more violent as the soaked fur does not cooperate, remaining plastered together. The prince's frown shifts to a scowl as he looks down at his coat before heaving a frustrated sigh and tilts his head back in defeat.

Master cocks his head to one side, grunts to himself and stands slowly. He sways slightly, finding his balance. Lifting his chin, he walks up to his leader and clears his throat to get his attention.

Thorin looks up and silently raises one inquiring eyebrow. Rarely have I been this close to the great dwarf, and his intense gaze makes me wish I looked more presentable. He-he wouldn't! I think in a panic as I feel myself lifted up and then placed upon the future King Under the Mountain's head. Stepping back, master's expression is a mixture of satisfaction and apprehension. I can only imagine his leader's expression at this moment.

"The fur of me hat is only a little damp. Ye may use it if ye so desire." To his credit, master's voice barely shakes and he does not fidget, despite the growing tension.

I sense the prince's incredulousness, and his hands clench. And I wonder if he will come at master swinging. But then a loud, rough bark of laughter escapes him, and the tension and fear of the last few hours dissolve. I feel his stance relax and see master beam with relief.

"Thank you, Bofur," Thorin accepts the offer, one finger lifting to flicker at my fur.

Master bows. I can only marvel at his bravery.

VI.

"They have dressed you in rich finery at Thorin's insistence. Befitting the 'savior of his nephews' were his words, according to Balin. Do you mind it, the finery I mean? It…it makes you look very imposing, so serious."

The arms wrapped around me tighten and I do not mind, needing something to hold onto, refusing, unable to accept the sight before me. I feel a deep, shaky breath pass through the chest pressed against me.

"Throughout our quest you never once lost your hat. Not when we were caught by the trolls, fleeing wargs and orcs, while in the goblin's underground town, or when captured by the Wood-elves. Somehow you always kept it safe." A weak chuckle fills the air.

I bask in this praise, realizing master indeed never became separated from me, except for those five times he gave me to his companions. Dear master.

Now I grow aware parts of my fur are becoming wet. Rather than feeling irritated as I usually would, I wish I was able to shed tears, too.

"So how did you manage to lose your hat during the battle, Bofur? Fili said you were without it when you jumped in front of him. Were you hoping to keep it from falling with you? Or did you fail to miss it amidst all the chaos?"

I become wetter, and I numbly realize my denial is crumbling as I stare at master lying on the dais. His hands are clasped over his mattock, hair neatly braided, eyes shut, and expression peaceful. He looks as though he is only sleeping, and will awake at the calling of his name or the smell of breakfast reaching his nose.

"You saved Fili and Kili, you know. They are safe, Thorin, all the others. I want you to know that. Four days it took us to search the battlefield for your fur hat. All the men looking for survivors were ordered to keep an eye out for it; what they must have thought of such a request! All of us looked, even Thorin. Now, does that tell you how much you mattered to the company, are valued still, my friend? Nori was the one who discovered it. Oin and I washed it as best we could. It looks like new, which hopefully will please you."

I am carefully raised up and turned in a circle. Squeezing my eyes shut, I sigh deeply at the sensation of being carried forward and then gently set on a familiar, dear head, my fur softly caressed a few times. I listen quietly to the sobs that fill the hall for some minutes.

"Now you have your hat to take with you to your final resting place. The others insisted I be the one to return it to you. Even Bifur and Bombur refused the right to do so. I think I understand why, though you never—"

Finally, bravely, I look up at Bilbo. He looks so weary, old, grieved by all this. As am I. I weep with him, keenly aware of the void which will remain always.

His voice trembles, "Thank you, Bofur. For accepting me into your family…for everything. May we meet again someday, toymaker-friend."

Leaning down, he gently knocks his forehead against master's, then kisses his brow in some sort of hobbit gesture. Gazing at his friend for a moment more, the hobbit presses his hand to his eyes as he turns and walks from the hall.

When all grows silent and still, I close my eyes, focusing on the head I embrace. Never again will I leave him. This is my place.

THE END