excerpt from a currently non-existent reshirement au fic, based on a prompt by @writersyoga to use the word 'dower'.
Eager for anything other than blades to occupy his restless hands (for whilst dwarves may forge great warriors, they are a people of crafters in their hearts), Thorin had set about mending the many items of Bilbo's home fallen into disrepair.
Bilbo never told anyone the damage had been done during the unexpected stay of the dwarves at Bag End, telling askers instead it was a simple case of neglect, for his heart warmed to see Thorin smile after hammering the final iron nail or applying the final lick of varnish, and he need not harbour any more guilt if Bilbo could prevent it.
He had not seen Thorin smile in a long while. Courteously, many times, but never these gentile grins dashing the worries of both men.
Lost, all furniture repaired as new or better, Thorin had turned his sights to new additions and built a tasteful dower in the garden. Shading the wooden bench on sturdy supports of thin stakes, vines curled up the kitchen window to entangle artfully across the knotted frame.
In summer, drooping flowers bloomed across the lattice, catching Bilbo's smoke rings in their petals unless the unhurried wind shifted and carried them out across the southern field.
Now, on a sunny spring morning, Bilbo and Thorin sat side-by-side on the bench under the budding dower. Thorin twisted gears of an intricate puzzle toy whilst Bilbo filtered through the day's post and puffed on his pipe.
Frodo waited at Thorin's feet, hands on the dwarf's knees ready to spring forward, brimming with impatience.
Finally, the toy clicked with greater confidence than its previous whines and creaks, and grew suddenly from a tiny thing in Thorin's hands to a giant box in Frodo's little palms. Immediately, the boy sat cross-legged in the clipped grass, turning the toy over and over in his hands as it was designed, captivated wholly.
Leaning down, Thorin ruffled his dark curls -- to which Frodo gave not an inkling of acknowledgement -- and stood, groaning and massaging his lower back.
"My body never hurt so much on the Road," he said, nearly a complaint yet just shy of it. "All this peace has softened my joints."
Bilbo hummed cheerily, a little smoke escaping the corner of his mouth. He looked up from a letter he would discard on the fire later, as it was yet another complaint from the Sackville-Bagginses. "Not enough to suffer from a trip to the pantry for lunch, I hope?"
Thorin smiled one of those pleasant smiles. He had found himself quite fond of the Hobbit capacity to take many meals throughout the day, after so long eating scant scraps on the Road.
He had grown plumper for his appreciation of such a habit, but then, who was there left to fight? He could allow himself to grow a little plumper and a little slower. If not now, when could be a better time?
All was well. Nothing unexpected ever dared to touch the Shire; a haven all its own on the fringes of remembrance in the histories of other folk. Sunlight shone sweetly over the meadows, glittered on the water, and only wind rustled the long grasses. Merry voices carried up the hill to the quiet garden. All was well.
