Originally written for Marigold's Challenge: write a holiday story involving hobbits.

Title: Clearing the Heir
Author: Lindelea
Rating: G
Main Characters: Bilbo, Eglantine, Paladin, Pearl, Pimpernel, Pervinca, and a short visit by the Sackville-Bagginses
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, but I sometimes sneak out with them for a cup of tea and a biscuit or two, or sit and watch them sleep.
Brief synopsis: How Bilbo decided to get himself an heir.

Clearing the Heir

Chapter the First: In which Bilbo has a Decision to make, and the Sackville-Bagginses come to Tea.

When the sharp rap came at the door, Bilbo had just sat down to consider his options, bolstered by a pot of tea, a seedcake that was a work of art, baked by his own hands for tea this day, and a few extra bits and nibbles to round out the meal.

 ‘Blast!’ he muttered to himself. He knew that imperious sound all too well, the sound of Lobelia’s umbrella leaving a dent upon the glossy green paint of his door.

 ‘Bil-bo! Bilbo Baggins! I know you’re in there! Now open this door!’

Hiding was not an option. There was undoubtedly smoke rising from the chimney into the bitter chill out of doors, and what reasonable hobbit would leave his smial with a fire going?

 ‘But I am not a reasonable hobbit,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Mad Baggins!’

 ‘Bilbo!’ the voice rose to a shriek. He debated with himself: would it be preferable to endure the rising tide of Lobelia’s ire, with its increasing volume and shrillness, or would it be better to endure the dubious pleasure of her company?

He sighed, considering the neighbours, and rose from his chair.

 ‘Coming!’ he bellowed, exhausting some of his frustration in the force of the cry. The teeth-grinding shouts ceased, though the sharp rapping continued, to encourage him to hasten in welcoming his unwanted guests.

Perversely he slowed his steps, taking deep breaths as he sauntered to the front door. He fumbled with the knob, rattling it impressively even as he rolled his eyes, muttered a few choice phrases, and finally, pulled the door open slowly and regally.

 ‘Lobelia!’ he said genially. ‘How nice to see you again! What brings you to my door, in this weather?’

 ‘I’d be freezing if you’d taken another moment to open to me,’ she snapped, pushing past him into the entryway.

 ‘Good afternoon, Bilbo,’ Otho muttered as he followed, pulling son Lotho after him. ‘Lotho! Mind your manners.’

 ‘Good afternoon, Bilbo,’ the tween sneered.

Lobelia advanced to the parlour and sat herself down in the best chair. ‘So nice of you to have us for tea,’ she said ungraciously.

 ‘I wasn’t aware...’ Bilbo said.

 ‘We need to make plans for Yuletide,’ Lobelia said. ‘I thought a nice, intimate supper... You can hire Mrs. Goodbody or whatever her name is to cook it up, and her daughters may serve...’

 ‘I had given them the week off,’ Bilbo said. ‘I won’t be at home for Yule. As a matter of fact, I have several invitations that I was just...’

 ‘Of course you’ll be at home!’ Lobelia simpered. ‘Ah, Bilbo, what a wit you have! Why, you’ll be celebrating Yuletide with your heir, of course, and...’

 ‘Heir?’ the old hobbit said, puzzled. ‘I have no heir...’

  ‘Precisely!’ Lobelia said brightly. ‘Which makes Otho, here, your heir. Now Bilbo, you’re not getting any younger, and we need to lay some plans... but I’m perishing for a cup of tea. What are we having?’

Such was the force of her personality that “Seedcake” popped out quite without Bilbo meaning to say anything of the sort. At the sight of his expression, Otho rose hastily from his chair. ‘Let me help you,’ he said, and taking the hapless Bilbo by the arm he steered him into the hallway and towards the kitchen.

Halfway there, Bilbo shook off the guiding arm. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, stiff with resentment.

 ‘You have it,’ Otho said. ‘I have to be ready to dispense pardon everywhere I go, the way things stand.’ Lowering his voice, he whispered, ‘She’s got a right bee in her bonnet, she does, and there’s no living with her unless I give her what she wants...’

 ‘And she wants...’

 ‘You know very well what she wants,’ Otho hissed. 

 ‘And how are you in a position to give it to her?’ Bilbo said in outrage. 

 ‘Just sign the papers she has had drawn up, Bilbo, for both our sakes. It’s the only way you’ll have any peace from my dearest beloved.’

Where’s that tea? Lobelia shrilled from the parlour.

 ‘Coming, dear!’ Otho called back, pushing Bilbo towards the kitchen. He saw the teapot and the cake and plate of sandwiches and bowl of pickled eggs and bowl of pickled vegetables and plate of nicely cut-up fruit set out on the kitchen table and said, ‘Well, I’m not sure it’s quite enough, but it’ll do for starters.’ He pulled a tray from the rack without further ado and began to load the food onto the tray.

 ‘Just make yourself at home,’ Bilbo said, and Otho nodded.

 ‘You bring along the cups and plates and such,’ he said as he lifted the tray. ‘And while we get started on our tea you can make up another platter of sandwiches, and open a few more jars of pickles while you’re at it. If you’ve no more cake, bread and jam will suffice, unless you’d like to stir up some scones...’

I wouldn’t, Bilbo muttered to his departing back, but he obediently built a pile of plates and saucers and cups, rolled silver in a stack of serviettes, and carried all to the parlour.

Otho took charge of the silver and plates and shooed Bilbo back to the kitchen. When Bilbo returned with another tray full of food, Lobelia was happily eating and drinking while her eyes scrutinised the parlour. Bilbo imagined she was mentally calculating the value of all she saw, or perhaps thinking of where best to place the portraits of her parents...

Bilbo put the tray down. ‘Do you have all you need?’ he asked, his voice rich with irony.

Otho bowed from his seated position in the second-best chair. ‘Thank you, Bilbo,’ he said.

 Lobelia, of course, did not have all she needed, and never would, in Bilbo’s opinion.

 ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, her mouth still half-full, and she dabbed delicately at her lips with her serviette. ‘Otho?’

Otho rose from his chair, walked to Lobelia’s side, and took some papers from the bag she’d laid with care beside her chair. ‘Here we are,’ he said, extending them to Bilbo.

 ‘Here we are – what?’ Bilbo said, eyeing the papers as if they might have teeth to bite him.

 ‘You’re not getting any younger,’ Lobelia said sweetly. ‘Just sign these, and we’ll avoid all sorts of unpleasantries.’

 ‘Unpleasantries?’ Bilbo echoed, slipping his hands into his pockets. His face cleared somewhat as if he found reassurance in one of them.

 ‘You know,’ Otho said. ‘If something were to happen – say, you were to die in your sleep, after a fine meal and satisfying smoke, well, it might take some time for all the legalities to be cleared up, without a proper Will or papers showing...’

 ‘Who says I don’t have a proper Will?’ Bilbo demanded. He didn’t as a matter of fact. Hadn’t even thought of making a Will. He felt as young as the day he’d returned to Bag End from the Wilderland.

 ‘You do?’ Lobelia purred. ‘Well, we ought to have a copy, you know, just in case...’

 ‘Just in case?’ Bilbo said, raising an eyebrow.

 ‘Why, with Otho your next-of-kin, he will be the one to discharge all your final obligations,’ Lobelia said. ‘These things must be done properly, you know.’

 ‘I see,’ Bilbo said.

 ‘Now,’ Lobelia said, ‘if you already have a Will, that’ll save us some time. On the other hand, we want to make sure that it’s up to date, and that you have a complete inventory of the contents of Bag End attached, for convenience’ sake, so we thought we’d spend the Yuletide here helping you to take stock...’

Before he’d sat down to tea, Bilbo had been deciding between spending Yule quietly at home, or accepting Mistress Lalia’s invitation to join the Tooks at the Great Smials, or if he’d go to Brandy Hall. He’d been leaning towards the latter: old Rorimac certainly set a fine table, following in the Brandybuck tradition. Now he was faced with spending the holidays with the Sackville-Bagginses... He shuddered.

 ‘You’ve not taken a chill, dear Bilbo?’ Lobelia said at once, her dark eyes glittering with hope and avarice.

 ‘No, but I...’ he said, only to be saved by a heavy knocking at his door.