Dusty

Jack double-checks the kitchen and the bathroom. Once the spotless counters have been wiped down once more, he runs the vacuum through the house for the third time in as many days and realizes halfway through the living room that he's at risk of sweating through the one shirt he's deemed appropriate to reunite with the mother of his pup. He delicately drapes the shirt over the back of the couch and continues to pick up the nonexistent dust.

He mows neat lines into the carpet until an electric shot zips through him in the form of a tap on his shoulder.

Jack whips around and is met with John, who's wearing a no-good smirk. "Decided against the tie, I see."

A small snicker comes from over his shoulder, and Jack's heart sinks like a brick. Standing in the living room, in all his fifty years of beauty, is Michael Robinavitch, bright eyes gleaming at Jack and a pretty blush glowing on his cheeks as he takes in Jack's naked chest.

Jack swears under his breath and shoves the shirt on. He'd given John a key to use whenever he pleased, but of course the first time he's willing to use it is when Jack can conveniently make a fool of himself.

"Sorry, I um, I thought I had more time."

"I don't mind," Robby says.

"Ew, Mom."

"Hush. I didn't mean it like that." But the damage is done; Jack's cheeks have flamed to match Robby's own in tandem with small pride swelling in his chest. "Hi, Jack."

It's as if Cupid's arrow has reburied itself in Jack all over again. "Hi, Mikey."

Robby's glow becomes impossibly more radiant at the same time that John's jaw drops. "Mikey? I didn't know people called you that."

"One person called me that," Robby corrects.

Jack's palms itch. "I, uh, I got you these." He brushes past Robby to the kitchen and grabs the bouquet of sunflowers. "I thought I'd be able to answer the door with them."

"Oh, God." To Jack's horror, tears spring in Robby's eyes.

"You're not allergic to them now, are you?"

Robby shakes his head. He cradles the flowers to his chest. "You're still the perfect alpha."

"Only for you," Jack jokes lightly. "I've had a lot of complaints over the years."

Robby raises his eyebrows. "A lot, huh?"

"No, no— I mean—"

"I'm messing with you." Robby rubs his shoulder, and a warm buzz spreads through Jack's arm. "I didn't think you'd been living like a monk."

"Well, I mean, look at you," Jack sighs. Robby is impossibly more beautiful in person than the one photo let on.

"Oh, please," Robby waves a dismissive hand. "I'm not—"

"He does alright for himself," John interjects. "They were all losers, but there were some handsome losers."

Robby's eyes pinch shut. "Thank you, baby."

Hope rises. "So... you aren't currently being courted?"

John answers for him. "Nope. Not for a couple years now."

"John," Robby bites.

"And he's got maybe two more years before menopause really kicks off, so—"

"John!"

"I'm just saying!"

Robby shakes his head. "We have a lot of talking to do before anything like that gets brought up."

"But it could be brought up?"

"Go for a walk," Robby orders. "A long one. Get us dinner or something."

John rolls his eyes and grumbles under his breath, but he still kisses Robby's cheek before he leaves. Jack gets a hug too; they've been doing that a lot. It's gotten them some odd looks at work, but Jack doesn't care. He'll let John be the one to tell people.

Once they're alone, Jack invites Robby to the couch. It feels like he's about to have a job interview in his own home.

"Sorry about him," Robby says. "He's become obsessed with us getting back together. Which," Robby sighs, "I imagine is my fault."

Jack's heart stutters. "Oh?"

"I— because it was my fault you weren't around when he was a pup," Robby clarifies. "I'm sorry about that, again."

Jack shuffles in his seat. "Why did you leave?"

Robby grimaces. "It seems silly now."

"Please."

"Your mother didn't like me." There's a sad air in his breath. "She didn't think I was good enough for you; no one did. You were this picture-perfect alpha, and I was too tall and gangly; I didn't have the right temperament. Everyone always said so, and it just got to me." Robby strokes the flower petals. "I thought I was doing you a favor. I didn't know I was pregnant at the time, I swear, but I didn't know what to say. 'Sorry for breaking your heart, pay for this baby.'"

Jack grips his hands together so tightly his knuckles turn white. "Well, I don't talk to my mother anymore."

"Is she dead?"

"Not that my brother has mentioned." Jack's jaw is so tight it hurts. "She kept saying how glad she was that we hadn't mated, and I was still praying you would change your mind. Haven't spoken to her in nearly twenty years."

"After all those years?"

"To this day."

Robby's tears return. "I'm sorry," he croaks.

Jack rubs his hands along his pant legs. "Did you ever consider telling me?"

"Constantly. Every doctor's appointment, after he was born, every milestone, every birthday." He gives a wet laugh. "I remember the first time he zipped his coat up on his own; I spent the whole afternoon debating if I should call you." Robby looks up meekly, then focuses back on the flowers. "And I did."

All the moisture in Jack's mouth evaporates. "You did?"

"Mhm. But you'd started your military service by then, so your number had changed."

"Oh, Jesus. I'm so sorry."

"That's not your fault," Robby says. "I never blamed you. This was all on me." A small smile curves across his face. "I used to pray our pup would be just like you. I spent my whole pregnancy imagining little curls and freckles, so as punishment, I ended up giving birth to my clone."

"I love it," Jack says. "You know I do. I always wanted a mini you."

"If I remember correctly, you wanted five mini-mes." He wears a full smile now.

"How could I not?"

"I can't believe you're even entertaining me right now," Robby admits. "It's proof you're too good for me."

Jack leans forward. He has spent decades hoping for this exact opportunity, and he's not going to waste it. "Before we ever met, if someone asked me to make my ideal mate, they wouldn't have been half as wonderful as you are. I couldn't have wished for a better mate, and I understand if you aren't interested, but I'd like the chance to prove that to you again." A nervous laugh rattles under his ribs. "I think our pup would like it too."

Our pup. He can't believe he gets to say that, to Robby of all people. It's a dream.

Robby wipes the stray tears off his cheeks. "You hear how crazy that sounds, right? I stole your pup from you."

"You did what you thought you had to," Jack corrects. "And John is perfect. You did perfect."

"I didn't. There were so many times where I fucked him up, so many times where you could've handled things better than I did."

"You can't look at that young man and say he isn't good. You know you can't."

"He gets it from you."

"How much leave do you have saved up?" Jack asks. "I bet a shitload; you never liked taking time off."

"Well..." Robby shrugs.

"Stay here for a while. In a hotel if you would prefer, but stay and let the three of us enjoy each other. We don't have to go any further than you want; we can just be cordial, but I would like some time with all three of us."

Robby bites his bottom lip. "Okay."

A weight drops from Jack. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I've wasted enough time."

Because if so that lends a whole new angle to the potential in the "hair cutting is Dwarvish self-harm," trope and the ideas that tend to get added to that: that a Dwarf may be shaved / cut their hair / have their hair cut as punishment, or as a mourning ritual, or because they are considered dishonourable, or as a kind of cry for help.

It's like partially blinding or deafening someone or oneself. I'm sure Dwarves' hair must grow back (and that also, perhaps like human body-hair, have a maximum length. Maybe that length is different in each Dwarf?) so it isn't a permanent damage. It is damage nonetheless!

Fics often depict some of these ideas as having been ritualised, and I would love to know how that works. Like the shaving as a mouring ritual one: do they say prayers for the dead as they do it? Is there some special preperation for the scissors or the razor or the place and manner in which it is done? Like if Thorin's keeping his beard short as a mourning ritual do you think he stands at the mirror dreading each scissor / razor stroke? Or is the dread pushed down by his going through the motions of the ritual(s)? Does Bilbo, when it is explained to him, have a bloomin' panic-attack at the thought? Does he try to stop Thorin? Is there a massive fuss along the lines of "Don't disrespect our culture!" / "Don't bloody well hurt yourself!"

Does any of these go as far as shaving the entier Dwarf? What would it be like for them to have every single hair on their body shaved or plucked? Does it disorient them? In what ways is having their stone-sense removed disabling? How does it feel to regain it as the hair grows back? Is this very horrifying to Dwarves? Because it seems in all the fics which deal with Dwarvish hair cutting that it is only their braids or part of their beards which is shaved: is it then considered very horrifying and wrong and a kind of greivous bodily harm to shave a Dwarf completely?

Also Dwarves with whiskers designed to sense something the other Free Peoples can't is facinating! But also in many of the fics in this fandom the Dwarves over-estimate the ways in which themselves and Hobbits are biologically similar. Do they worry for Bilbo getting lost or caught in an earth-quake or whatever when they find out his hair is just a floppy, pretty much functionless thing? Does Bilbo, after he finds out about this, treat them with kid gloves for fear of hurting them and need it explained to him that merely bending a Dwarf's hair doesn't hurt, it needs to be broken to do that? Also does it mean that Dwarvish hair is thicker than, say, Hobbitish hair?