"I should like to save the Shire, if I could - though there have been times when I thought the inhabitants too stupid and dull for words, and have felt that an earthquake or an invasion of dragons might be good for them. But I don't feel like that now. I feel that as long as the Shire lies behind, safe and comfortable, I shall find wandering more bearable: I shall know that somewhere there is a firm foothold, even if my feet cannot stand there again."
“Or I could tell them about the time you drunkenly sang dwarven songs outside our home, frightening the passing neighbors and having the poor Gaffer come over to see if you had truly gone ‘mad’. Or maybe the time that you attempted to braid my hair as if I were a dwarf then vomited on your favorite trousers? Shall I continue?”
”H-How do you even still remember that! You were just out of your nappies- Never mind! I never was one to care about reputation, but I finally have a decent one, and you- you would take that from your uncle? Besides… you were crying all night after Maggot’s dogs got you. Little red marks all over you. You waddled all the way to my room to ask for some ice in the middle of the night.” The older hobbit chuckled to himself at the memory.
”And you should be proud I attempted to braid your hair! Braids have great value in dwarf culture! It was on par with claiming you as my own, you little scoundrel.”
"Oh, my dear Bilbo,” Frodo simpered, all too amused at his Uncle’s burst of stammers. He always did when flustered, and ever since Frodo had terribly loved to see him get high-strung. Then again there was little he did not love or tolerate about the older hobbit, who really had taught him most everything he knew. Save a certain wizard, as well.
“Bless you! It is precisely because you raised me that I have such keen memory, or should I say, certain memories, ” He all but beamed at him, as he hadn’t in a very long while.
He colored at the mentions. “You would compare me to a dwarf braid! You would hold us as equals! I thought I was far more dear than that!” Frodo muttered, tossing him one of his child-like pouts he’d done when he was a boy. It was as if they were thrown into the past again.
“Or about when you tossed all the plates and screamed that ‘This is what Bilbo Baggins Hates’ yet you did it anyway? Or that you insisted you could make a smoke-ring out of the Lonely Mountain when visitors came and tripped on the way to your cabinet? Dear, Dear Uncle! They say here such words are having 'dirt’ on someone. Imagine the dirt I shall have on you!”
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