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He wasn´t – ashamed.

Not of -

No, there was no shame.

Not in this, at least.

Mahal knew that the list of offences and grievances to be put at his door was endless in numbers but this -

And he had tried.

Was trying.

He should have been stronger when they told him to come.

He had known it to be pointless.

He´d made it abundantly clear -

And yet he had foolishly allowed himself to hope that he could -

The dwarf glared at his reflection and abruptly turned away to retrieve his newly polished boots and sat down to pull them onto his feet.

He would not be the cause of any further embarrassment.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo Baggins could not help it.

He really, really could not help it.

Anyone would be hard-pressed to resist, really.

Because really -

Oh, stuff it – the entirety of Hobbiton could call him Mad Baggins and see if he cared; he would let them toss his food and empty his pantry and sing embarrassingly bawdy songs (well, he would tell Nori to keep those down, especially when they were off to the market, of course. There was still enough respectable hobbit in him to not wish for some of the more inspired lyrics to come to any fauntlings´ ears. Or their mothers. He already had to remember to send out notes of apologies to the Grubbs for the state of their vegetable patch since his boys had decided to take the short cut through it... after trotting through what must have been a pigsty. Or two. They had not even eyed his mother´s glory box this time so Bilbo had refrained from scolding them. Much.) and - „Still a doily, Bofur! And there are quite enough holes in it already, thank you!“ Dwarves. Honestly. - barge into his home again, unannounced, and he would just stand there, lean against that very conveniently placed arch and, well, smile.

Because he could not but smile seeing his friends again, even if not all of them had managed to make the journey to the Shire, but sitting around his dining table, currently, not tossing – too much – food (Good! His eyebrow still did the trick where those dwarves were concerned.) and making merry were some of his nearest, dearest, most beloved and terribly missed friends.

Bofur.

And Nori.

And Dwalin.

Fili and Kili.

And -

Thorin.

Well.

Well.

That was -

Well.

Yes, and that dwarf should really warn a hobbit before he showed up at his doorstep and nearly cuts off his air supply – not to mention the danger to his bones - with those very thick and - Yavanna be blessed! - very strong arms- again.

He would have to clean that coat.

It was all good and well and lovely to hug an unsuspecting hobbit but if that hobbit had to sample any bit of fur it would be much preferable if it had been probably washed! And then his nose had ended up nearly entangled in that silver-streaked mane when he sought to escape that -

He´d put an extra brush on the bedside table.

And there should still be some of that oil …

They would all like a bath, after travelling in that weather.

Why they had even thought to travel in that weather when they could just as easily have rented rooms for the night and then continued on to Hobbiton.

Really, still not a grain of sense between them!

Yes, and that was really quite worrisome, considering there was now an actual mountain for one of them to rule and for two of them to at least pretend to be princely in, from time to time, and Dwalin was Captain of the Guard and Bofur head of the Mining Guild and Eru knew what Nori was up to these days, exactly – and he really did not need to have any more details explained to him; it would be much better for the peace of his already befuddled mind. Poking suspicious – no, thank you, the dwarf could take his talk of needles and knives and – and techniques to a more stalwart being. This hobbit had seen quite enough blood and gore and entirely unsavoury fluids to last him a lifetime!

And as happy as he was to see his friends again, he could not but worry that travelling in those outside conditions might have done some of them harm because, well... Thorin had touched it.

Bilbo thought the dwarf had probably not noticed – or thought himself unobserved – but it had not escaped his hobbit host that the king´s hand had more than once wandered to the scar that ran from his hairline to nearly the tip of his nose; barely missing his right eye. The hobbit shuddered at the memory of being led to his friend´s tent after the battle had been won and how deep and threatening the wound dealt to the dwarf by an Orc blade had seemed, even after it had been cleaned and stitched up and smeared thickly with some ointment provided by the elves.

Thorin had been lucky to not lose his eye. Though at the time those close to him would have considered that a mere minor nuisance, considering how they had all feared for the king´s life.

Bilbo closed his own eyes briefly as all the horrible memories washed through him. They had won, they were safe, they were well. And he had beds to prepare and meals to plan and -

Only he hoped Thorin was not in pain. Scars and cold weather... well, everyone knew that they could -

He opened his eyes only to meet the king´s angry gaze.

Flushing – to be caught staring; and by Thorin! Oh dear, he really seemed to have left his manners on the other side of the Misty Mountains, just as Cousin Lobelia had taken to declaring. Openly. Loudly. Inside his lovely hobbit hole – and outside of it. – the hobbit rambled something about beds and linens and extra blankets and hot water and „... please make yourself comfortable in the sitting room - if you could just see to the fire, Master Dwalin? - I´ll go and see to it all and then I´ll prepare a bit of supper and you can tell me more about your mother, boys, and not the watch, Nori! you´ll tell me if you wish for some bubbles or just the usual – uhm, I´ll be going now. Yes. So – the sitting room. There should be some biscuits somewhere, if you care for any...“

~ ~ ~ ~

Thick arms crossed before a tattoo-covered chest.

„No.“

„Well, suit yourself; I´m gonna take the burglar up on it. Mind I thought ya´d be pleased to share a tub with me -“ The red-haired dwarf twirled one of his moustache braids, briefly patted one of the muscular appendages and winked at the gaping, promptly reddening youngest dwarf in the room who turned wide, beseeching eyes towards one of the windows.

“Uncle -”

He met with a broad-shouldered, tense back; no sign of acknowledgement that his plea for help had been heard. Kili frowned, all thoughts of Nori and baths and old weapons masters and all the horrible things they could be doing and which no dwarf should ever be forced to think about momentarily forgotten. But -

Thorin had seemed happy.

Well, yes; his uncle had grouched and glowered and grumbled and even threatened all sorts of evil on his loving nephews when they had told him about their plans but really, Amad had pronounced it to be a very good thing and if their Amad pronounced something – anything – A Very Good Thing you usually showed your compliance. Especially when she made her pronouncements calmly. While sipping tea. Delicately. Then you really should have your wits about you and agree with her pronouncements. Uncle Thorin had apparently forgotten that Basic Rule Of Survival during the Quest and uhm, things had been … interesting.

And it was not at all unbecoming of Princes of the Line of Durin to crouch down outside of a door and put their ears -

Honestly.

Balin could be so stuffy.

And they all knew Thorin had missed their hobbit!

They all had; especially him and Fili because Bilbo – well, he just made things better. He was gentle and kind and patient and fussy and adorable and he could do things with food that had a dwarf seriously considering snatching him up for himself and why their former burglar had not long been their newest uncle was really quite beyond Kili´s comprehension because everyone could see he and Thorin were meant for each other!

And he did not even mind Dwalin cuffing him when he asked about it – much.

Because someone had to, obviously.

And Thorin had hugged their hobbit.

Again.

Which was as good as a proposal, in Thorinish.

What he meant was – well, how many people did they know to have been hugged by Thorin? Usually, he just glared. At most beings. Especially at elves. Still. Although it was slightly better when in Court. But that was because Balin had told him a few times – ever so patiently – which made a dwarf positively quake in his boots! - that it would be more diplomatic for a King to -

Or that eyebrow twitch.

Balin liked to use his brows to his advantage at times, too-

In the case of one certain King under the Mountain.

Which was the same as words, practically.

Almost.

And personally, he much preferred to witness those un-Thorinish hugs than to have horrible thoughts of shared baths implanted into his poor, innocent mind and -

Mahal, he needed to wash his brain with some of the soap now.

Before Nori and Dwalin could -

Kili shuddered.

Much better deal with his uncle´s love life. Because his uncle´s potential interest would never -

“- bother it all! Confounded dwarves! A hobbit would be permitted to think that now that they´re back under their not-so-lonely-mountain and living in – in civilisation they´d remember to clean up after themselves but no - making a hobbit almost split his head on the – you´re still up!“

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin had been cursed.

Cursed by his Maker and all the Valar.

For Mahal himself had decided that he had not even remotely atoned for his mistakes and wrongdoings and had taken to punishing him by parading before him that which made him rue the day he had met the wizard in the inn in Bree and his heart attempt to escape the confines of his chest while thundering madly to the tune of BilbohobbitlovenakedtouchMine!

It was – indecent.

Un- respectable.

And to think hobbits prided themselves on their propriety!

Brazen. Entirely –

It was only right that he had sent the boys to their beds.

And it had nothing at all to do with any jealousy over anyone feasting their eyes on what no-one but himself should be allowed to -

Drenched.

The hobbit – Bilbo – was -

Half-drenched.

Soaked.

Wet.

It was entirely beyond his considerable kingly abilities to follow the rant he was currently being subjected to in its full eloquence - ... honestly, Thorin - dropping - floor – unsanitary – bath – Brandywine... - that improperly flimsy piece of fabric presenting him with a sight that made him itch to touch and kiss and nib at and expl-

Durin´s beard, now the little creature was flushing, too!

Thorin swallowed.

Hard.

All the soft, creamy, hairless, unblemished -

The dwarf froze; staring at his irritated host in unmoving silence until he abruptly turned from the hobbit to stare out of the window once more, arms crossed at his front in a clear sign of dismissal.

“Do not distress yourself, Master Hobbit. We will see it cleaned.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“What – oh, yes, of course you will; that is, Bofur is already – uhm … Thorin? Are you quite alright?”

~ ~ ~ ~

He was – fine.

He had never been a dwarf of many words.

And if he spent most of his time in their former burglar´s home watching it was nothing out of the ordinary and most certainly did not warrant for his best friend to roll his eyes at him whenever he considered Thorin to have been - staring.

He did not stare.

He -

Bilbo Baggins confused him.

He had returned his embrace – and what he had been thinking reaching for the hobbit and holding him pressed to his chest barely a moment after that round green door had opened to them he did not know (other than Mahal, still so beautiful -!); he had barely been able to stop himself from inhaling when his nose brushed those curls – and had seemed happy to see him - them - after the initial surprise to find a selective assortment of dwarves at his door without any previous warning.

And that had been the boys´ doing.

And he had firmly ignored Balin´s knowing look when he left the two menaces under the delusion that he considered their idea of surprising their burglar for old time´s sake an excellent approach to the matter.

If he had to be part of that harebrained endeavour than he was going to insist on his prerogative that was having as little to do with the logistics as possible. He was King. He was – busy.

It had had nothing to do with any doubts and even less with any sort of fear that Bilbo might attempt to evade them. Claim a previous family engagement or taking himself off to Rivendell and allow those poncy elves to hog him – again. Once he learned of the King being of their party.

They had parted as friends.

And as a friend, Thorin was currently enjoying the hobbit´s hospitality – where did his little one put all that food? And still remain so wonderfully – resisting the urge to smash his head against the kitchen wall whenever the irrepressibly impressionable organ in his chest made hopeful little jumps when the small creature currently wrapped up in the most hideous apron Thorin had ever had the displeasure to lay his eyes on appeared to be turning towards him.

To face him.

Look at him.

The king scoffed.

He knew he was unattractive, even to such a kind, warm-hearted being as their burglar.

The Line of Durin had never been favoured in their looks.

And since the battle -

His hand lifted to -

“Does it still hurt?”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Hurt.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Oh. That´s – that´s good.” Bilbo smiled a hesitating little smile, stupidly uncertain as to how to deal with the dwarf´s reticence. Before – oh before he would have known how to deal with Thorin Oakenshield.

It would either have involved some ranting or some entreating and very possibly a little – or a lot of - exasperation but that was – before.

Before the Arkenstone, before The Incident, before the battle, before he had taken his leave of the slowly healing King and his friends to return to the Shire. Peace he and Thorin had made, and he had even clung to the severely injured dwarf´s hand; once, but there had not been many words said after and Thorin, while having forgiven him, had found it very evidently difficult to even look at him and he, in turn, had not been able to look at the dwarf without -

So -

By the Gods, the blasted dwarf was so confusing!

Turning up out of the blue – nearly crushing him with his lovely, strong arms! - and then sitting there; in his kitchen, in his sitting room, even on his garden bench; like a great, big monosyllabic lump and the most a hobbit got out of His Lovely Crankiness was a few grunts and hums and the odd few worded-sentence. Two, if he was lucky.

And lovely the tiresome dwarf still was.

Which was very unfortunate, not to mention quite rude, because Bilbo had happily spent quite a portion of his time since coming back to the Shire blissfully forgetting that he had ever been tempted to attribute any such, uhm, attribute to that particular dwarf.

And now, nearly a year after he had made the return track over the bloody Misty Mountains, Mr That Particular Dwarf had deigned to pay him a visit and -

Well.

Visit was debatable.

Very debatable.

Because visitors, or at least those in Bag End – and honestly, the rest of his visiting bunch was doing just fine! Slight bathroom incidents excluded. But Bofur did clean up in the end so -

Well, they talked. Usually.

Granted, there were times when a hobbit wished he was able to forget the good manners that had been instilled into him from birth and just tell the visiting talker- talking visitor - highly draining and exhausting absolutely unwelcome – yes, well - to kindly take themselves away again – right now, thank you very much! (and he might take to indulging himself in forgetting those very same manners here and there … when a certain Sackville-Baggins relative of his came visiting... but he was only a hobbit and moreover a hobbit that had left some of his respectability behind when he ran away with a group of not very respectable dwarves so – well.) but on the whole, Bilbo liked it when his visitors talked to him and to be dealing with a barely-talking specimen for a few days then who had apparently wanted to visit him … or so the boys had claimed. And he would quite like to believe – and who kept shooting a hobbit little stares and glances when they thought a hobbit would not notice -

Yes; and when a hobbit looked back they quickly looked away!

And while he rather admired Thorin´s sharp profile with the cheekbones and the nose and the beard and yes, even the thick, red scar, because it spoke of the dwarf´s strength and survival and endurance and Bilbo´s hand sometimes twitched to gently run its fingers across it just so that he could physically assure himself of the dwarf still being there – he might have woken, once, shortly after he had come back from his adventure and had been sleeping amongst his own fluffy and many pillows and blankets again (which he blamed for his sleep-deprived brain taking leave of its senses, entirely!), from a dream that involved soft kisses across the handsome face that bore it – he would really quite prefer it if the dwarf would at least pretend to be comfortable in his presence and look at him and the number of times he had seen the dwarf´s hand rubbing the still somewhat coloured line where that blasted Orc (it was a very good thing that Azog was dead because if Azog were not dead he would feel himself obliged to make sure that Azog were dead and sometimes, looking at Thorin, he even felt an urge to un-dead the Orc so that he could make certain that the Orc was dead again because it was just unfair that the dwarf had to endure that daily reminder of -) had cut him – the hobbit shivered at that very vivid memory of the battlefield – it seemed very clear to him that that particular scar still very much troubled Thorin (the other appeared to have healed so much better!) and he would gladly offer relief – maybe some of the ointment he had brought from Bree the last time – or a warm compress?

Since he couldn´t kiss it better and -

Nope.

But the reticent dwarf claimed that it did not hurt!

Ugh.

Dwarves.

Really, it was a wonder that he had missed them as much as he had because -

Well, the boys seemed to have left their injuries behind them, at all events. And Bilbo was so glad to see them be their normal selves again that he had not even minded the odd plate going flying again – at first.

He had put his hairy foot down when it had threatened to take up something horribly akin to a routine approach.

Lobelia´s ugly set of soup plates had been fine.

His Aunt Petunia´s hand-painted cups, however -

The Durins would not be present during his Aunt´s next descending upon his hobbit hole, after all!

Nasty business, that aunt business.

Very nasty business.

And you´d think that he had long outgrown any susceptibility to big, wide, wounded eyes and any pouting arranged around the general vicinity of moustache braids but no; he found himself slaving away in his kitchen all morning, some six or seven days after his friends had taken to disturbing his peaceful existence once more.

Why he was even getting the ingredients assembled for that chocolate and berries confection he knew their uncle to be partial to was very much a mystery to himself, thank you.

Who knew, it might sweeten the blasted dwarf up a bit and -

Uhm -

Was that a snore?

That was a snore.

Spoon in one hand, bowl in the other, Bilbo turned around.

Well.

That was just.

Well.

Right.

Good thing the mousse would keep.

~ ~ ~ ~

That could not be comfortable.

Not for someone as unhobbitish in stature as its current occupant.

Whom he had better not mention to that the overall picture a hobbit was presented with was -

Cute.

Sweet.

Adorable, even.

And he was in so much trouble.

It was really quite a lowering thought.

You´d think he had outgrown his stupid affliction.

Or that all the non-social sociableness would cure it. What with it being worse than during the Quest even!

But no -

Adorable.

Oh fine, then.

If that was to be his lot in life he would at least battle the symptoms. As it were.

Bilbo reached out to arrange the knitted blanket more firmly across the shoulder it had started to droop from. He would quite like to put a pillow under the head that was resting on one outstretched arm, which in turn was resting on an armrest, the poor thing, too, but that could not be accomplished without waking the curled up heap of a royal dwarf and Fili had mentioned that his uncle forewent sleep more often than not – even if he naturally denied any and all of it, the great, stubborn oaf – and while Thorin seemed to have enjoyed a little more rest in the Shire thus far the hobbit was loathe to wake him from his obviously needed additional rest.

And if any bones should creak and muscles protest later; well, there was a perfectly respectable, comfortable bed His Majesty could have taken himself off to.

And he did most certainly not mean his own – at least not for sleeping and -

Eru, he clearly needed a nap himself.

His brain, at the very least.

The foolish thing.

Oh – that must really tickle so he had better -

“What are you doing?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh dear.

He should, of course, have remembered that the dwarf was prone to waking at the slightest noise. Or movement.

And now he had acquired the happy knowledge that the merest poke on his own person had the same result.

Well, not poke, precisely.

Gentle – flick.

Careful, soft, loving -

Well, that long, thick silver-streaked lock had been in the way!

He had only been – helping.

Yes.

Helping.

Mothering.

Thorin.

Because Thorin -

Well, he was very sorry but it really was the dwarf´s own fault for falling asleep in his favourite armchair, looking all things uncomfortable and then having his stupidly gorgeous hair discomforting him, too! A hobbit could not but intervene and attempt to lessen the discomfort! Hobbits were creatures of comfort, after all! And – and good hosts! He would be a very terrible host if he did not see to a guest´s comfort!

Not that Thorin was quite a guest, really, but -

“Bilbo?”

Gods, those eyes were really very blue.

And sweetly, sleepily bewildered.

Oh sod it, this was not the time for – whatever this was.

(And Thorin was still leaning into his touch; or so his insubordinate, gleeful subconscious took leave to point out.)

The hobbit gently brushed the lock behind one round ear.

“Hush. It´s nothing. Rest now.”

Those very blue eyes blinked up at him in confusion and then slowly fell shut once more; the dwarf sighing softly as all inhibitions – and every bit of common sense – got thrown overboard and a soft kiss was pressed just above the corner of his eye.

Well.

Well.

This was -

Well.

Tea.

He needed -

Tea.

And then to draw up his will to make sure that his cousin Drogo would inherit Bag End after his untimely demise at the hands of an enraged, if refreshed dwarven king. He really could not part from this life in the fear that Bag End would fall to his cousin Lobelia.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin had woken to an annoying tickling motion.

Followed by a gentle brushing motion.

The barely there brush of soft fingers.

His eyes still closed, the dwarf had leaned into the pleasant touch.

It had been such a long time since anyone had -

Not since his Amad, when he had been but a dwarfling, confined to his bed -

He had wished it had been Bilbo touching him like this.

Petting him.

Touching his hair – his cheek – his sc-

The dwarf´s eyes had flown open and he had asked the hobbit what he had been doing.

And then there had been that kiss -

It had to have been a dream.

A pleasant, fanciful, far-fetched dream because there was simply no reason for their former burglar to bestow him with such affection and in his dream those soft lips had placed themselves on his temple; on his disfigurement, and no hobbit could look past it, or even treat it with such gentleness.

To a hobbit, the thick scar that ran across one side of his face was abhorrent. To a hobbit, the paler scar that adorned the other side of his face was irritating. To a hobbit, a scar did not speak of achievements, of survival, of bravery in battle – to a hobbit it spoke of disruption of their peaceful, blissfully ignorant existence and no hobbit would bind themselves to someone who was a living reminder of the dangers outside their comfortable, peaceful lives; of battle, of war – of death. Such a reminder as his might have been tolerated, perhaps, if his appearance spoke of all the things a hobbit admired in their chosen one, but Thorin fell very short of that mark with his strong, muscular build and abundance of hair and general – hardness. There was nothing round or soft or inviting about the King under the Mountain; not even a certain amount of plumpness!

He had heard the whispers – low and loud ones as they had been. Bilbo might have scowled at those neighbours he had overheard in the discussion of their verdicts but he was a polite little hobbit and it merely spoke of his wish for his guests to be treated with a certain amount of respect.

Thorin had heard enough. Enough to make him hesitate to even try to win the one he had tentatively begun courting once they had reached Lake Town.

He had been too subtle, too convinced that Bilbo would understand his overtures for what they had been. He had been too – dwarfish. And not even enough of that.

Words had never been his strength and they had failed him even more in matters of the heart; which he had been supremely untried in.

They had reclaimed the Mountain.

They had gone to war.

And Bilbo had gone back to the Shire, barely even able to look at the disfigured King at their parting.

He had only fully understood once they had been in the Shire for a few days.

Their hobbit looking away when caught staring had been somewhat speaking in itself but to learn of -

Thorin was not a vain dwarf.

The Line of Durin had never been considered attractive by any means and he would not have been courted in his younger years the way he had been courted had it not been for his status; he had neither the inclination nor patience to reflect on his appearance, not had he envied dwarves like the Ri brothers for their handsome looks and general pleasingness. He was and always had been a warrior. A Prince. A King. A King who wore his scars with pride. They were part of him. His history.

It could almost be considered amusing that the scars now on his face made his subjects and kin consider him somewhat more appealing.

But what appealed to dwarves -

He had hoped.

Hoped that -

He was a fool.

A fool who still wanted.

There would be additional weapons training for the boys.

Gruesome training.

At sunrise.

Before breakfast.

Once they returned to Erebor.

And he would force Dwalin to be his executor.

For all the smirking.

And the eye-rolling.

For treating his King like -

Mahal knew what the middle Ri brother saw in his oldest friend.

And what in Durin´s name was that smell?!

~ ~ ~ ~

“Oi! Burglar! Biscuits are burnin´!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“You can´t possibly eat them.”

A grunt, swiftly followed by a crunch.

“They´re burned.”

Another crunch.

“They´re inedible.”

A very loud crunch.

“Dunk them into your tea, at least.”

An affronted look.

“You´re impossible.”

Delicate dabbing with a brightly patterned napkin.

“I hate you.”

“Pass the cream, lad.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The flower-patterned little dish was pushed across the table.

“You could have shared them with Thorin, you know.”

(Who had fled the smial under some mumbled pretence the moment he had found his host and friend trying to limit the damage.)

The look that was directed at the hobbit nearly provoked him to stick out his tongue. He refrained from doing anything so unsanitary, of course, being a respectable hobbit and all that, but really! And all those crumbs -

“Dwalin.”

“Aye.”

“Is all well? In the Mountain?”

The bald dwarf paused in next gulp of his favoured tea and narrowed his eyes.

“What have ya heard?”

“What? No – nothing – it´s just -” Bilbo swallowed at the suspicious look, his cheeks turning a little red. “I was merely wondering. Because – well - Thorin. He´s not quite – happy, is he, and I – uhm, I thought something might be up in the Mountain, perhaps? Is that what made you all come visit me? Only Thorin would surely not have left Erebor if anything terrible were going, he´s much too conscientious for that – probably does not even take enough time to himself to eat, properly! And as for his sleeping habits – I had to put a blanket around him! - only he seems almost sad sometimes and he does not talk or at least not as much as he used to and that wasn´t even much to begin with, really, you had to coax that dwarf into giving more than grunt in response but he did talk, eventually, when he wasn´t in one of his moods, and I keep thinking that his wounds must still pain him or at least the one on his face because, well, he keeps touching it when he thinks no-one is looking and I just - ”

“Burglar.”

The hobbit´s mouth fell shut; the tips of his pointed ears adopting an even redder shade than his cheeks.

“Yer making my head spin.”

“Uhm...” Bilbo offered, biting his lip - “Sorry?”

“Don´t try ta cuteness with me, ´m not Thorin.”

The ears were positively burning now.

“Now see here, Master Dwarf -”

“I am seeing. Sit yer bum down, it´s rude ta shout at guests.”

The hobbit felt he must be offering a very creditable impression of a fish; seeing how he could feel his mouth gaping. While he sank back onto the bench. Slowly.

And then he glared.

“Glare´s not cute either. And ´m not interested in yer scowls. His Majesty has enough of ´em to keep me going.” Dwalin leant back and crossed his arms. “Yer a twat, burglar.”

Really, it was a very good thing that he now had experience in the art of fish impersonation. It was really quite a useful skill! Maybe he could make a profession out of it and -

“I´ll tell Nori you hate his fish stew.”

Dwalin lifted another of the more badly burned biscuits and subjected it to calm, thorough inspection. It appeared to be satisfying. So -

“Thorin thinks he disgusts ya. And that´s a cheap shot.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh, he would have words with that dwarf.

Many, many words.

So many words that there would never again be any doubt on the matter of the dwarf´s appearance, loveliness, handsomeness and entire, absolute, hair-raising idiocy when he was finished with the imbecilic creature! And if he had to pepper the stupidly attractive face with kisses to bring his entirely altruistic point across he would do so.

The dwarf could murder him after – he´d be happy to go in the knowledge that he had performed this one good, entirely necessary, final deed.

And to go back to the earth with the taste of Thorin Oakensh-

Well, he was a hobbit in if perhaps not quite his prime but very nearly to it still!

And he had eyes!

And then there were all the non-visible tiresome, exasperating, wonderful sides to the dwarf and really, it was no wonder that he -

Oh bother.

Well.

And then the stupid oaf walked around presuming all sort of nasty, horrible, insulting things when a hobbit had never given him reason to suspect them of such – such -

Really!

You´d think that joining a loud, obnoxious, hairy bunch of dwarves on a suicidal adventure; nearly getting eaten by trolls, smashed by Stone Giants, riddling with insane we´ve-had-goblinses-and-fishses-but-we-haven´t-had-hobbitses-before creatures, putting yourself between a demented king and a hook-armed, foul-breathed (if he ever met an Orc parent he´d very definitely reprimand them on the personal hygiene lessons they treated their throat-cutting-favouring offspring, too! And he was not going to make any promises as to his politeness!), ill-tempered Orc leader, letting a skin-changer cuddle and – and pat him and call him abominable pet names – and he was not even going to mention Mirkwood and all the indignities he had been forced to endure there before cramming his sorry, smelly lot into barrels and then there was that nasty cold in Lake Town and the apparently insignificant matter of A Dragon and -!

Disgusted.

Really.

That – that – idiot!

You didn´t go on mad quests when you found its leader in any way unattractive!

A hobbit really had more sense than that!

Stupid dwarf.

And why Thorin did not just speak to him about -

Or scowled. Or growled. Or even grumbled.

That would have been far more natural for the dwarf and then Bilbo would, eventually, have reacted in accordance with their erstwhile routine and would have snapped and then they would have shouted at each other and then ignored each other and then Thorin would have shot him careful looks and Bilbo would have sighed and have marched over and patted the silly, stubborn king on his forearm and then there would have been apologetic mumbling through a cascade of lovely dark hair and he would have eventually coaxed it all out of -

That was how they should have dealt with the problem.

But now they would simply skip all these well-tried steps and get straight to the shouting.

Well, he would.

The King under the Mountain would bloody listen because by Yavanna, if he had to endure any more nonsense of ugliness or unattractiveness he would - umph -

~ ~ ~ ~

“Are you hurt?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh, that was quite lovely, really …

Those big, calloused paws running up and down his arms …

Wait.

The hobbit swatted at the hands that were cupping and lifting his face and resolutely moved around the dwarf to scowl at the third party that had been standing to the side and had snorted at the dwarf king´s hurried question.

Bilbo scowled.

“Really, cousin Bilbo -” the female hobbit in the bright, purple dress began condescendingly, “There would be no danger for you to break your unfortunately Took-ish nose if you had not deigned to consort with those - dwarves. Especially this one -” Lobelia Sackville-Baggins continued, eyeing the unmoving taller being with undisguised disgust - “- who frightens children with his terrible disfigurement and should be made to stay away from the market!”

“I did not -”

“Well, as I was telling this dwarf -” she continued unperturbedly, “Otho and I have always known you to be – strange, dear cousin, but even for you -”

“How dare you besmirch -”

“- this hobnobbing with such crude creatures; why, your poor father would be quite ashamed to see you lower yourself to such – well -” Lobelia permitted herself a knowing titter - “- it is not that any proper hobbit would want you, of course, but -”

“You will apologise -!”

“Shut up.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The king´s furious roar, which had the female hobbit shrink back a little in sudden fear, was, as far as effect was concerned, nothing in comparison to the icily worded command by the smaller hobbit.

It had the dark head jerk towards the hobbit so quickly that Bilbo would have feared for the state of the dwarf king´s neck if he had not had a more serious matter to attend to at that present moment. Such as -

He raised a mildly inquisitive brow.

“Have you been frightening hobbitlings, Thorin?”

“I -” A frown. Then - “No.”

The hobbit hummed.

“For future reference – if you should really wish to frighten a hobbit child – or any hobbit, really – just mention that there will be no dessert. Nothing has us more compliant than the threat of being denied food. Which you should have remembered. Your Majesty.” Bilbo ignored the slight bewilderment, as well as the sudden twitch of bearded lips that followed that pronouncement. “As for you, dearest Lobelia -” The hobbit´s smile could be called somewhat predatory - “There is nothing that dwarves treasure more than children. And if any of our fauntlings should have taken flight - or fright! - it was very likely due to that particular shade of colour. I would run away from it, if I weren´t such an old, unfit hobbit. And that´s a Baggins nose.” He began tugging at the king´s arm. “Come along now, Your Majesty, we would not wish for you to -”

“So what would you call it then, cousin when a proper, worrying, respectable hobbit happens upon a crying fauntling in the market with that ugly dwarf holding the poor, sweet thing in his arms and -”

Bilbo ruthlessly ignored his cousin´s outraged huffing and blinked his eyes up at the King.

“You found your way to the market? Without a map?”

“Master Bag- ”

“Oh, so that is what it is!”, came the shrill, derisive laugh from behind them; the hobbit lass clearly pleased with her discovery - “Well, I do wish you joy, dearest Bilbo! Even if you will be quite unwelcome in all respectable homes now, with such an abomination for a – Bilbo Baggins!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was dreaming. Again.

Because he would not find himself being suddenly pulled down by his hair and soft, demanding lips claiming his mouth in a firm, insistent kiss if he had been awake -

Mahal, Bilbo was kissing him.

And before his brain could quite wrap itself around that entirely surprising, welcome fact and inspire the rest of his body to react accordingly and bring up his hands to the hobbit´s head and his back and answer in kind those extremely capable lips were gone again and left him feeling strangely bereft and in a shocked haze.

He whimpered.

Slightly.

“Bilbo -”

“You -” The hobbit, who had turned away to blithely smile at his enraged relative, suddenly rounded on the dwarf and -

Poked him in his very firm chest.

“I will deal with you later! Honestly, Thorin -” he huffed - “As if your scars were of any matter to me! And you, cousin Lobelia -” The finger that was pointing at the female hobbit was as frightening as it was final - “- will kindly keep your unprepossessing Sackville-Baggins nose out of all my dwarves´ business. Give my regards to Otho. Good morning!”

And that should save me the trouble of thinking of a birthday gift; the hobbit found himself musing as he dragged the unresisting dwarf king further up the hill.

~ ~ ~ ~

“I found him sitting behind a stall, with his knees pulled close, and crying. He seemed to me too young to be out in the market on his own so I bent to ask him of his parents. He admitted to have lost sight of his elder sibling in the bustle and demanded to be lifted up by me. I did not think it prudent to refuse.”

“What you mean is that you could not resist the big, teary fauntling-eyes.”

A hint of a soft smile crossed the dwarf´s face. “He did not fear me.” Blue eyes then lifted from where they had been fixed on a dainty cup, staring at the hobbit on the opposite side of the fireplace. “Is it true?”

The hobbit´s ears flushed a little. Could he possibly get away - well, probably not. But stall -

“Is what true, Thorin?”

“I am not repulsive to you.”

The hint of fear in the deep voice very nearly broke the hobbit´s heart; all earlier outrage and indignation forgotten. Nearly.

“I should be insulted that you even need to ask me that. I am your friend Thorin. There is very little you could do to make me look at you with disgust. And no -” Bilbo lifted a hand to stop the immediate rebuttal that was most certainly going to be the whole Arkenstone debacle - “No, we are not going to mull over this again, it is all forgiven. Forgotten. You were not yourself. And I – did steal from you. So – oh.”

“Your friend?”

The hobbit looked down at his own, small hand; that was covered by a much larger, calloused one.

That stroking of his knuckles with that gentle thumb was very distracting.

“Uhm, well, I … that is -”

“It was not a dream.”

Now his cheeks had doubled their colour, too! Honestly, did the dwarf really have to focus on that kiss when that other kiss -

“Bilbo.”

Fine.

Fine!

“Well, excuse me, Master Dwarf, but you curled up on my armchair, quite possibly doing all sorts of horrible things to your poor spine and looking all things adorable and I´m sorry, but if you didn´t like it it´s quite your own -”

“You are my heart, Bilbo Baggins.”

Now that - that was really -

~ ~ ~ ~

“Bilbo.”

“Hush. I´m busy.”

And going to continue to ignore those quick breathy inhales and adorable little sounds – well, not ignore, exactly; rather enjoy them while continuing in his showing the dwarf what, precisely and demonstratively, he thought of any remarks that spoke of any displeasing appearance and disfigured looks and all the other such nonsense.

Repeatedly.

And the King would like it.

And once he had convinced his really quite unfortunately foolish beloved clot of dwarf that his physical merits were absolutely on par with his many inner merits – hm, he really needed to kiss that adorably large nose again. And then those eyelids. And then that small dimple just below the scar he had discovered which had had Thorin positively melt – he would go and finish preparing that dark and white chocolate mousse and mix some berries and then keep all his dwarves busy with it while he marched down into Hobbiton and let certain cruel, prejudiced neighbours of his – yes, Thorin had been quite stupid to assume that Bilbo had not looked at him all those many months ago, in that healing chamber, in Erebor, because he was disgusted by the sight of what only had made him even prouder but perhaps he should have made it clear that he had feared to not be able to leave at all if he kept looking at the dwarf and -

“Oh Mahal, finally!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Kili whined.

“Must you?”

The young dwarf hastened to add that he really was very happy for both his uncles – and it was quite amazing how quickly the boys had laid claim on their share of their former burglar; namely about five minutes after the brothers had happened to walk into the sitting room where their new hobbity uncle had been perched on their kingly uncle´s lap and had showered his pinking face with – ugh! - kisses – and they were very welcome to, well, you know but oh please, Uncle Bilbo, not before breakfast and not in full of view of easily impressionable dwarflings who still have to cope with their former weapons master´s horrible – OW!

If Kili – or Fili; who had been the recipient of the same treatment at the hand of the same weapon master while cackling over his brother´s fate – had thought there was retribution to be got from the direction of his kingly relative they were to be sadly disappointed.

His Majesty was too busy permitting his hobbit to remind him of certain merits.