Chapter Text
“Well, that’s the last of it,” Óin said as he fastened the final bit of the bandages around Thorin’s chest. “Off to bed with you, then, my king.” He gave his patient a gentle clap on the shoulder and turned to his assistant.
“Bilbo, help him to his room, will you, while I clear these bits away? Just needs a steady arm, up the stairs, that’s a good lad.”
“Oh, well. I,” Bilbo said, a bit flummoxed. He knew how he ended up here, helping to bandage Thorin’s many cuts and bruises and watching Óin touch up a few sets of stitches that had pulled loose in their journey to Beorn’s hall, he just had not quite thought his participation all the way through.
Azog’s mace had left a terrifying bruise in the middle of Thorin’s chest, but apparently, it was just bruising. Thankfully, the warg that had bitten into Thorin’s side and thrown him to the rocks had not punctured that far through his mail and all the layers the dwarrow favored, mainly just mashed and bruised him horribly, cracked a couple of ribs, and left him with a few tooth punctures and a scrape that needed looking after, and one or two cuts from their time with the goblins.
Most everyone had retired to their beds, but Bilbo, still in the throes of an odd need to make sure Thorin was within sight and healthy, had been operating under the ruse of enjoying an after dinner pipe with Gandalf (which, truthfully, he had enjoyed) while waiting for signs that Thorin had made it through the bath Óin ordered him to take, to clean out the wounds he’d field-patched after they left the Carrock and loosen Thorin’s clearly stiff muscles.
Bilbo looked up at the sound of muffled cursing and scuffling, and to his surprise, it was not Kili and Fili – who were prone to such antics - that spilled into the great hall, but Thorin and Dwalin, the king attempting to fight off his right hand as Dwalin all but carried him into the room, both of them snarling like affronted cats. Dwalin dumped him on the table in front of Óin with a bone-jarring amount of venom from someone who was “helping.”
“What in the world?” Óin said, glaring. “What’s gotten into the two of you? And Dwalin, if you’ve managed to goad him into pulling any stitches, I’ll thump you, be sure of it!”
“He bit me,” Dwalin growled miming a cuff at his king’s head. Thorin mimed one right back, and scowled when Óin blocked it by simply placing one of his “cleansing washes” on a wound, causing him to muffle a yelp and wince. Dwalin laughed the laugh of the vindicated, and tossed a towel on the table as he left, Thorin glaring daggers at him all the way.
Gandalf began to choke around his pipe, he was laughing so hard. Bilbo couldn’t quite laugh, too busy looking/not looking at….
“And what did you do with your clothes and your boots, lad?” Óin was asking Thorin, looking over his stitches. “It’s fine to treat you like this, but….”
“Dwalin gave them all to be tended to, and there’s wasn’t a piece I could wear to bed that wasn’t wet.”
“Where’d y’get the clean britches then?” Óin looked askance at the thin linen knee-length smallclothes that were folded down a few times, then tied tightly at Thorin’s waist, and still managed to dangle awkwardly around his calves.
“Dwalin provided them after some…persuasion. He never wears them except special occasions anyway.”
Bilbo forgot how to smoke and coughed himself nearly insensate. Gandalf patted him amiably on the back.
“Oh, Bilbo!” Óin bellowed genially. “Come help me, lad! This salve is a bit greasy and it’s better to have an extra hand with the bandages.”
“Oh! Well. I,” Bilbo responded intelligently. Gandalf gave him a completely unnecessary kick. “Certainly, I’d be glad to.” He managed to get in a kick himself on Gandalf’s shin, which he disguised as a bit of a stumble.
As he reached the table, Thorin, though still appearing a bit feral, battered and bruised with his half-dried hair waving down his back, looked at Bilbo with a spark of humor in his eyes as he greeted him. “Master Halfling,” he said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is it wise to kick a wizard?”
“Hobbit, please, if you cannot call me by my name, your dwarfish, excuse me, your dwarrow majesty, ” Bilbo replied cheerfully, and lowered his own voice. “And I’ll let you know about that, if I wake up as a toad tomorrow.”
“You expect to still speak the common tongue as a toad, Halfling?”
“Hobbit,” Bilbo corrected him again, hitting the “t” hard. “I expect he’ll not leave me a completely helpless. Just greatly annoyed.”
“Hobbit,” Thorin replied, echoing him. “Greatly annoyed,” he asked, a thread of laughter in his voice, though he cast a great scowl at Óin as he tended to a particularly tender spot. “Greatly annoyed; that would be different, how?”
“Oh, you are one to talk, your regal grouchiness. You’ve fairly growled and snarled your way from my door to here.”
“Regal grouchiness?” Thorin said, his eyebrows at his hairline.
“You do carry it off with a certain style,” Bilbo admitted.
“If I bear the leadership of this company with a certain style, then it is my business,” Thorin replied firmly, but not as angrily as Bilbo expected. They regarded one another a long moment.
“Lad,” Óin said to Thorin. “I’m going to have to re-stitch this one a bit and, I’m warning you now, I’ll be using a bit of that cleansing wash you enjoy so very much.”
“If it is necessary,” Thorin said loudly, sighing.
“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t!” Óin replied. “Mead or Poppy milk?”
“Neither.”
“Thorin, lad…”
“How many stitches?”
“Two, three at the most.”
“It will be fine.”
Óin sighed elaborately. “You!” he turned to Bilbo. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing to keep him still and quiet.” Bilbo, not taking his eyes off Thorin, nodded.
“You don’t have to,” Bilbo said quietly as Óin began to work. Thorin was attempting not to flinch each time Óin dabbed at his cut. Bilbo made a note to never need stitches or that particular wash if a stoic, thick-hided dwarf was wincing.
“I would like to keep the use of my arm,” Thorin gritted through his teeth, and then sighed as Óin put aside the offending medicine.
“No, I mean…”
“I want this over, so I can go to my bed. And it’s only two stitches. I dislike poppy milk’s effects, and mead takes too long,” Thorin explained. He braced himself against the table and waited for Óin’s needle.
“No, I understood what you meant.” Bilbo assured him. “What I meant was you don’t have to bear…I mean if you wanted to talk to someone,” he stumbled over his words. “Not that you don’t have anyone to talk to, I know that many of the company are old friends or family or both.” He watched, trying not to wince as the needle went into Thorin’s skin. Thorin hissed and breathed through his teeth.
“W-would you like to hold my hand?” Bilbo stepped closer and held his out. “I hear it helps.”
A range of expressions Bilbo couldn’t quite parse washed over Thorin’s face, and finally, he was granted an incredulous and pained smile. “I would crush it, Master Hobbit.”
“Baggins. No, you wouldn’t.” Bilbo flapped his hand impatiently. He glanced up and over to Óin. Óin, the old not that deaf dog, slid his eyes over to Bilbo, smiled, and held his needle well out of the way of Thorin’s skin. He winked.
“Quick, he’s about to start the next stitch.” Bilbo flapped his hand again. Thorin took it with a certain amount of bemusement. He gave a soft grunt as the next stitch began, and Bilbo squeezed his hand comfortingly. Thorin held his gaze steadily as he suffered through being stitched, (far more than two stitches, he suspected) and Bilbo did the best he could to maintain just as steady a glance, offering what comfort Thorin would allow. Thorin did not squeeze Bilbo’s hand until Óin was done and dabbing the blood away from his skin, and when he did it, it was gentle and slow. Bilbo returned the same pressure and kept hold as Óin continued to tend to Thorin.
“I see you, you know,” Bilbo said softly. “Sitting outside the circle of the fire, keeping your distance from everyone, even your nephews, and I understand, I really do. I, I’ve been a landlord long enough and read enough to know you need to keep your distance a bit from people you supervise or command. If you ever wanted to talk something over with someone – not that I’m holding up myself as any great master tactician or diplomat, or equal to a king gracious, no – but just someone not related to you, or someone who saw you grow up or…I’m not one of your subjects, so that would put me out of the chain of command, I suppose. I’m a good listener. Anyway. I’m offering.”
“Thank you,” Thorin said slowly. “That is very kind, Master Baggins.”
Bilbo rocked up on his toes, pleased. “Bilbo.”
Thorin rolled his eyes. “Master Bilbo.”
“Thank you, just Bilbo.”
“Will you correct me every time I say your name?”
“I will correct you until you call me Bilbo. Or late for dinner.”
“What happens if I call you late for dinner?”
“One word; scorched earth pantry policy.”
“That is four words.”
“Three of them are to distract you from my stealing your food.”
“Which one is not?”
“That would be giving away trade secrets.”
“There’s a trade in eating pantries bare?”
Bilbo looked at him. “Were you not conscious the evening you spent in my house?”
Thorin raised an eyebrow. “The dining was very meager.”
“Because your company literally ate me out of house and home! Had to walk out the front door the very next day. Not a scrap of food left! I tell you now, I left the Shire simply because I assumed you lot had cleared out all the food. I was trying to get ahead of the stampede!”
Thorin’s lips twitched. “I have seen you at table, it is dangerous to keep a hobbit from his food.”
“I wasn’t trying to retrieve the ponies, really, you know, back with the trolls. Those blokes had a goodly sized pot of soup and I just wanted a decent meal! Of course, I never imagined their dinner invitation meant that I’d be a part of dinner. I should have said straight away I had parasites in my tubes. I’ll bring it up in the introductions, I think, next time I meet a troll. Just to be on the safe side. 'Bilbo Baggins, pleased to meet you. Parasites in m'tubes.' Yes.”
Thorin snorted and shook silently. Óin made a noise like an aborted wheeze, then turned it into a cough while smacking Thorin for shaking. Behind them, Gandalf choked on his pipe again.
“And the elves! You didn’t think I was simply spending all that time in library, did you? And you assumed the elves were giving you green food to mock you. Not true. I raided their pantries, all of them. Ate every sausage. Foiled the lot of ageless wise creatures and nicked every last one. All they had left was salad. All you lot had was salad.”
Thorin began to chuckle, a low, rusty sound. “Hobbit,” he said fondly.
“Are we back to that? Bil-bo. Bil-bo. And,” he said dramatically, dropping Thorin’s hand to strike a pose, one finger in the air, the other hand in his braces. “I revenged my pantry. Had indigestion for two days running, and, thanks to you, one of them was actual running, but I. Had. My. Revenge.”
Thorin truly, finally, laughed this time, a great big bark of a laugh, his smile white and wide as he continued to chuckle. A moment later, Dwalin exploded out of the sleeping area with a roar, entirely naked save for his tattoos and battleaxes. Thorin guffawed, Óin and Gandalf not far behind him.
Dwalin let out a string of Khuzdul curses. “Well, pardon me for not recognizing your laugh after not hearing it for a decade. I thought we were being attacked by donkeys.”
There was a pause while everyone absorbed that.
“I’m really only seeing one ass here,” Bilbo said with dignity. Thorin's shoulders began to shake again, as did Óin's, little snickers escaping. “Seeing it all too clearly. And it’s far, far more than I ever wanted to see.” He paused. “And I will never unsee it.” Thorin, very gratifyingly, howled with laughter.
“Harrumph,” Dwalin harrumphed, and stomped off, but not without a parting shot, dare Bilbo say, a cheeky one, of the most prolonged fart Bilbo had ever had the occasion to hear. Though the laughter didn’t quite diminish, exactly, Bilbo felt three sets of eyes – a wizard and two dwarrow – turn to him, as apparently he was the sole arbiter of good behavior in the room.
“Frankly,” Bilbo said with great affront. “I’m disappointed that didn’t cause Dwalin to collapse completely.” He demonstrated such a collapse with his hands and made a rude noise to accompany himself. Behind him, Gandalf’s laugh took on a high, keening pitch, and Thorin and Óin just elected to collapse on one another and snort helplessly.
“Ow,” Thorin said, still chuckling a little, when he finally caught his breath.
“Oh, tch, your poor ribs, I’m sorry, lad,” Óin fussed, and helped Thorin sit up straight.
“Oh, dear.” Bilbo worried, wringing his hands. He’d meant to help Thorin, not…
“It’s fine, it’s fine, Óin,” Thorin assured him, though he did flinch a little as he settled himself.
“Actually, they’re still cracked,” Gandalf said kindly, suddenly quite close. Óin drew back and let Gandalf place a hand on Thorin’s forehead. He whispered a few words under his breath, and then held his hand over Thorin’s side. Thorin swallowed hard and made a grunt of surprise as he sat up straighter and pressed a hand to his ribs.
“Thank you, Gandalf,” he said with gruff gratitude.
“You are most welcome, Thorin.” Gandalf twinkled affectionately at the king, very pleased, and clapped him on the shoulder with a careful hand.
“Well, why didn’t you do that before?” Óin asked, exasperated. “And you couldn’t have healed the cuts?”
“Hmmm, healing is not my chief talent, and I have to…I suppose the best way to say it is I must renew my strength a bit after using it. Doesn’t come easily to me, you see. And use it I did, the other day on the Carrock, and healed as much as I could.”
He gently pointed at the worst of the bruising in the center of Thorin’s chest. “Ribs away from the breast bone, here, and the crack in his hard head, but had to leave the rest alone. Thought I wouldn’t have the strength to heal the cracked ones for a while, bones take a bit of doing, might heal on their own first, but….”
He beamed at all of them. “Love and laughter are powerful magic in any circumstance, and being around that always lends me strength. Very healing in itself for anyone, really.”
“Y-You don’t mean to tell me that fart jokes can renew your magic, do you?” Bilbo asked faintly, trying to grasp at something, mind still reeling from Gandalf’s list of Thorin’s wounds.
“No, Master Bilbo,” Gandalf said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder Bilbo’s shoulder and smiling at him from under his brow. “That is not what I mean to tell you at all. But it didn’t hurt. Goodnight!” He swaggered out, his robes swirling, as they called their goodnights and thanks after him.
“Wizards, honestly. Merrily say your king could have died horribly from a ill-timed sneeze without his aid, add something cryptic and sweep out,” Óin muttered as he double-checked Thorin’s ribs to his own satisfaction. “Now, let’s get you bandaged, before you get more salve on my last clean shirt or fall over laughing and grease Master Beorn’s table,” Óin said tartly. “I’m ready for bed.”
“You have my thanks, Óin,” Thorin said. “Apologizes for keeping you up so-“
“Oh, lad, I’m not fussing.” Óin murmured and gave him a pat as he fussed and checked Thorin's ribs a third and fourth time while Thorin waited patiently. “I wouldn’t have missed that laugh for the world. Knew there was more to his whispering than waking you, the cagey bastard..." Thorin finally put a heavy hand on Óin's shoulder and gave the old dwarf a reassuring pat of his own.
"Oh, ach, stop listening to a jealous old healer. And here,” Óin added, pouring a man-sized mug of water. “Drink this. All of it. If I remember correctly, that confounded magic can make ye a bit parched.”
As Thorin drank, Óin gathered up his bandages, handed them to Bilbo, and smeared a great deal more of his wound salve on Thorin’s chest, complaining about the great shaggy pelt of hair he had to work through, while Thorin tried to keep out of his way and drink his water. Bilbo swallowed hard. Thorin’s chest wasn’t that shaggy, and his hair actually looked rather soft.
Óin put a large clean flannel pad over of Thorin’s chest and stomach, covering the worst of the bruise and puncture wounds, and had Thorin hold it in place. He moved do the same salve treatment to Thorin’s back, and asked Bilbo to hold Thorin’s hair out of the way.
Bilbo moved to do it in a bit of a trance, having always admired Thorin’s long, thick hair. It took both hands to gather it up and hold it above Thorin’s right shoulder, well away from Óin’s work. It was soft from washing, still a little damp, and clung to his fingers, trying to slip away, so he twisted it a bit, into a rope, and could not help but caress the long fall of it as he did so. Thorin inclined his head toward Bilbo as he worked.
“Am I pulling?” Bilbo asked softly, darting an embarrassed look at Thorin.
Thorin looked at him, sidelong, a warm glance. “No.” He ducked his chin a bit, and Bilbo caught the edge of a small smile.
“It’s just that it keeps trying to escape,” Bilbo confided.
Thorin huffed a small laugh. “Master Hobbit.” His voice was fond.
“Baggins,” Bilbo coaxed.
“Master Baggins,” Thorin answered obediently.
“Bilbo.”
“Master Bilbo.”
“Just Bilbo.”
“Just Bilbo.”
“What am I going to do with you, your majesty?” Bilbo sighed, moving the tail of Thorin’s hair even further out of the way as Óin placed flannel on Thorin’s back and began to wind a long bandage around his middle to hold the two pads in place.
The two of them did a little dance, of sorts, around Thorin. Óin taking up Thorin’s hair in one hand while Bilbo wrapped the bandage snugly around the front of Thorin’s body, so close to him it was nearly a hug, their faces nearly brushing as he worked. He’d hand the bandage off to Óin just under Thorin’s right arm, who could get it around his back, and then it would be Bilbo’s turn to make the pass under the left arm and across.
Bilbo glanced at Thorin once during the process and Thorin looked back, tilting his chin just so, almost close enough to…and Bilbo couldn’t breathe, could hardly see for the rush of fire that ran through him. He tore his eyes away and handed the end of the bandage to Óin, hands shaking, blushing, he was sure, to his toes. He could feel the warmth of Thorin's breath against his cheek, not quite a sigh, and swallowed hard. Óin handed Bilbo Thorin’s hair as he wrapped the bandage over Thorin’s opposite shoulder, covering the small bit of flannel over the stitches he’d repaired. Bilbo shuffled over a step or two.
Staring sightlessly at Thorin’s shoulder, idly watching the play of firelight over his skin, Bilbo felt a small tug at his side. Looking down, he saw Thorin’s fingers curled into hem of his ruined waistcoat.
“Bilbo.” he said, voice low.
Still dazed, Bilbo’s mouth moved on automatic, “Yes, your maj-“
Thorin’s strong fingers twisted the cloth sharply. “Thorin,” he corrected, so gentle, almost a question, and looked at Bilbo from the corner of his eye.
Before Bilbo could draw a breath, Thorin was turning away to sit up straight for Óin, and Óin was speaking, and Bilbo had to remember how to get his ears to work for anything but Thorin’s voice.
“Well, that’s the last of it,” Óin said, as he fastened the final bit of bandages around Thorin’s chest. “Off to bed with you, then, my king.” He gave his patient a gentle clap on the shoulder and turned to his assistant.
“Bilbo, help him to his room, will you, while I clear these bits away? Just needs a steady arm, up the stairs, that’s a good lad.”
“Oh, well. I,” Bilbo said, a bit flummoxed.
“Go on now,” Óin said, shooing at them both, and tossing Bilbo a towel to wipe any salve off his hands. “And my thanks for the help. Bilbo, he’s not made of glass, and Thorin, neither is Master Baggins, so let him help you.” He did, however, give Thorin an arm off the table, and poked at few bruises on his side that he’d not poured over, heading right down his flank until Thorin slapped at his hands. Óin motioned Bilbo forward and tipped him a wink of all things, the meddler.
Bilbo was both distant from and acutely aware of their walk across the long hall and up the stairs. He was intimately conscious of Thorin’s arm around his shoulder, the warmth of his body, how small and bare his feet were, the livid bruise down his side that dipped under the waistband of his breeches, that Bilbo, arm around Thorin’s waist, wanted to be careful of brushing against all while wanting to press closer to all that warm skin, and oh, how very, very little Thorin was wearing.
He was also conscious of a sort of haze, a hush that had fallen around them, a kind of prickly-soft hair-raising feeling like before a thunderstorm, built of the evening’s laughter and small glances, touches both casual and deliberate, plus all the wrangle of their relationship before. It was heavy, cutting off conversation, and it moved with them, gathering force at every step. Part of Bilbo Baggins (the Took part) was was yearning toward whatever storm might come, but the other part of him, the Baggins part of him, was still back about a quarter hour ago, boggling over Bilbo flirting with a king and what, exactly, was he doing?
“And here we are,” Bilbo began pleasantly as they reached the door, forcing himself to break the long silence. Thorin simply turned and embraced him as he had on the Carrock, curling around Bilbo, and Bilbo found himself pressed closer than he'd been all evening against warm, clean honey-and-medicinal herb-smelling skin and soft hair. Like the embrace on the Carrock, it was heady and overwhelming in the nicest way possible, and Bilbo found himself clinging a bit as he returned the hug.
“Thank you,” Thorin murmured, and Bilbo tightened his arms carefully.
“My pleasure,” he whispered back. “Truly.”
Thorin stepped back with that same gesture he’d used on the Carrock, holding on to Bilbo’s shoulders and casting a long, slow glance from Bilbo’s face downward as he eased away. As before, it caused Bilbo’s entire body to flush, and this time, he began to believe the glance meant what he thought it meant, then suddenly, blue eyes were gazing into his with an intense, soft expression, strong arms drew him in once more, and Thorin was quite thoroughly claiming Bilbo's mouth with lips that were warm and soft.
If Bilbo had imagined privately how Thorin Oakenshield kissed (and his private thoughts were just that, thank you) he’d expect a demanding, aggressive kiss, but this was certainly not that. Thorin kissed as if he were tasting Bilbo with careful delight, kissing as if kindly and patiently asking a question, far more patient than Bilbo ever dreamed possible, and the surprise of it all, the intimacy of such unexpected sweetness, the difference in Thorin’s demeanor made Bilbo gasp into the kiss and tilt his head his head for more.
At Bilbo’s response, Thorin’s patience broke free for a breathtaking moment as he made a noise that could not be called anything but a growl, and took Bilbo’s mouth with enough passion to curl Bilbo's toes. He could not help but shiver and make a small sound of appreciation.
Thorin choked off his answering soft groan, and Bilbo could feel him snap a tight leash on himself, and that coiled restraint just made Bilbo’s knees all the more unsteady. The kiss was gentled all too quickly, and Thorin pulled away to press a sweet kiss on Bilbo’s forehead, each eyelid, his cheeks, a soft, chaste kiss to his mouth, and then he took one of Bilbo’s palms, kissed it, and placed it over his own heart, then mirrored the same gesture over Bilbo’s heart.
Thorin’s eyes were serious, but with a hint of joy in them, his mouth berry-red from kissing, and even with his bandages and bruises and cuts, he was the most beautiful thing Bilbo had ever seen. He looked at Bilbo, a soft and humble gaze that stole the breath and said simply, “Think on it, Bilbo.”
He pressed a final kiss to Bilbo’s palm, took one step backwards, and eyes never leaving Bilbo’s, shut the bedroom door in his face.
“What was that?” Bilbo whispered to himself. He stood there, transfixed for several moments. No, truly, what was that? A question, surely, an offer, more than likely. And it had a hint of ritual to it. Bilbo touched a hand to his lips, closing his eyes against the flood of recent memory that assaulted him as he thought; the smell of Thorin’s skin, the strength of his arms, the passion hidden behind that normally stern, thin mouth, now red from Bilbo’s answering kisses, his lower lip damp and shining….there was no hope for it. He needed to know. Bilbo knocked on the door.
When Thorin opened it, his expression was hooded and slightly wary.
“Pardon me,” Bilbo said, his voice breathier than he expected. “But that was a question, clearly, but a very specific-seeming question, and…well, I certainly am not going to be able to sleep until I know exactly what it is I’m thinking on.”
Thorin dropped his head. “I should have known you would not understand,” he said, and sighed heavily.
Stepping forward onto the threshold of the room, he reached out a tentative hand. “I very much want to. Understand.”
“Come all the way in, then, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, resigned, but with a thread of humor in his voice, opening wide the door.
“Bilbo,” he blurted reflexively, as he walked a few steps in and Thorin shut them in together.
“Bilbo,” Thorin replied, lingering over his name in a way that was more a caress than a command.
Bilbo obediently turned to face him. Thorin was cloaked in firelight and shadow, but his eyes were quite clear in the half-darkness, and the banked intensity in them, the sheer power there should have made Bilbo want to flee, but he found he wanted to see it in full, bask in it. He stepped forward, well into Thorin’s reach.
“Help me understand, please,” he asked.
Thorin reached out slowly and drew Bilbo to him, hand heavy at the nape of his neck. Bilbo’s eyes drifted closed as Thorin leaned in. A kiss to his forehead: “I wish to know your mind, hear your opinions,” he murmured. Kisses to Bilbo’s eyelids; “I wish to see the world through your eyes. Kisses to his cheeks: “I wish to share in your laughter and your tears.”
Finally, his mouth, an achingly soft kiss: “I desire you,” Thorin said in a midnight voice, and brushed his lips against Bilbo’s after, clearly restraining himself from another kiss. “I wish to share my body with you,” he added, his voice dropping even lower, and Bilbo just barely repressed a whimper. Thorin’s hand tightened on Bilbo’s neck, and this time, Bilbo couldn’t bite back the small, longing sound.
Thorin took a shaking breath and stepped back, clasped Bilbo’s hand, pressed an ardent kiss to the palm and placed it over his heart. “I wish you to know my heart.” He placed his own palm over Bilbo’s heart. “I wish to know yours.”
Hand shaking, Bilbo stroked where Thorin had placed his hand, careful of the bruises beneath, and struggled to speak. “That is a kingly offer,” he rasped.
Thorin cradled Bilbo’s hand against his chest, pressing it close. “I ask as myself, not a king.”
“Still, I am just a simple hobbit.”
“You were never simple. Only someone blind and deaf to your worth, as I was for too long, would think so.”
Bilbo inhaled sharply, trembling from head to toe. “Please tell me this is not some bedding ritual, or dwarrow life debt thing, that you do not,” his voice broke, and he had to take a moment to breathe. “Offer yourself because I…”
Thorin plucked Bilbo’s hand from his chest, clasped it in his, and twined both together over his heart. “If I wanted a tumble, I’d have asked you to come to my bed for the night. If this was a life debt, I would have said, ‘I owe you a life debit.’ And I would have protected you all your days.”
“Even if I went back to the Shire?”
They stood looking at one another for a long moment, and Bilbo dropped his eyes.
“If that is what you wished,” Thorin said slowly. “I would ask you allow me to see Erebor settled and whole, and then I would come with you. Or to you, if you could not stay. If I cannot have both, I would follow you.”
The depth of the offer shook Bilbo to the core. “If you felt you owed me a life debt.”
“I do owe you a life debt, Bilbo, but I am too greedy and too drawn to you to live beside you in simple service. If you would have me, have all of me.”
“Why?” Bilbo whispered, swaying, nearly lost, unable to look at him.
Thorin raised their clasped hands and kissed Bilbo’s knuckles. “Do you know how many of dwarrow I asked to join me on this quest? How many kings and warriors, how many that I have fought and led and lived and bled with, lie idle waiting to see if I fail as my father and grandfather failed? And you. I shower you with cruelty, refuse to see your worth, and you walk through a mountain of goblins, shrug and offer to help me take back my home, simply because you know the value and comfort of a home, and believe that I – and my people - deserve the same.”
Thorin reached out with his free hand and lifted Bilbo’s chin to look into his eyes. “You shrug, and offer yourself, like such a precious gift is nothing. And then you, no warrior, no training, leap in front of orcs and wargs to save my life, to save me from my own rash deed, and want nothing but thanks and to see me well.” He smiled and traced his thumb across Bilbo’s cheekbone. “And, apparently, to see me laughing, too. Courage, humility, generosity, intelligence, humor, compassion, and forgiveness? How can I not reach for a heart such as yours? How could I not want to have you beside me? You are no common anything, Bilbo Baggins.”
“Hobbits give their hearts but once, Thorin,” Bilbo warned, nearly lightheaded and fighting not to sway into Thorin’s touch.
“As do we. As will I. As do I.”
Bilbo, breath hitching, he untangled himself from Thorin’s hands and took a few steps backwards, holding up one finger to answer Thorin’s soft sound of dismay.
“You asked me to think on it.”
“You do not have to think here.” Thorin said with slow concern. “If you are uncomfort-“
“If I walk out that door, I will convince myself by morning this was a dream brought on by excess elderberry preserves and Gandalf’s pipe weed.”
“Bilbo…”
“Shhh!” Bilbo covered his face for a moment, to steady his breathing. He heard the distant clunk of Thorin possibly hitting the back of his head against the door. “And do try not to injure yourself further, please,” he said as tartly as he could. It came out far too shaky.
Long moments passed as Bilbo mastered his breath, examined his thoughts, and looked into his heart, which was beating near out of his chest in a tangle of delight, surprise, desire and who knew what else. It was very important that Bilbo get to the bottom of that tangle before he answered Thorin, so he took his time and unraveled it, pruned the last thoughts of Thorin offering himself out of obligation away, tried to tie back some of his feelings of unworthiness (a king!), looked at his expectations…and asked himself, oh, he asked himself some very pointed questions indeed.
“Bilbo,” Thorin finally whispered, the plainest, softest of pleas.
Bilbo raised his head, his breathing now finally as steady as his convictions. “Just another moment,” he answered just as softly, and simply looked at Thorin, hiding nothing. Thorin was resting against the door, and likely had beat his head against the wood, the idiot.
Instead of frustration, he was looking at Bilbo with ill-concealed and sinking hope, but after a moment of Bilbo’s returned gaze, a spark kindled within him, his body loosened, his hands opened at his sides and he smiled the most tender, shy smile Bilbo had ever had the pleasure of seeing.
Thorin waited for him, regal in bruises, bandages and borrowed, draggled smallclothes, visibly eased by sharing Bilbo’s glance, his expression vulnerable and honest, his great hurt heart open for Bilbo to see and hear and feel, calling to him, calling for him. The last of the tangle in Bilbo’s heart fell away.
He stepped forward, and reached up to cup Thorin’s face in his hands. “Lean down, you majestic oaf,” he whispered. Thorin treated him to a quick flash of his full smile as he obeyed, a smile, which, if Bilbo had not planted himself firmly and put a bit of starch in his spine, would have taken him out at the knees. Thorin looked at Bilbo’s mouth, clearly thinking that this is where they were headed, but at a murmur from Bilbo, and a quick, surprised glance, Thorin hesitantly bent down.
Bilbo still had to push up on his toes a bit as he slowly kissed Thorin’s forehead, and had to firm his resolve to do this properly at the resulting choked, relieved sigh and the hands that stole around his waist. He pressed on, trembling slightly as he kissed Thorin’s fluttering eyelids, his cheeks, and when he reached Thorin’s mouth, they were both were drawing ragged, unsteady breaths. Bilbo concentrated on putting the best of himself into the chaste press of his lips against Thorin’s, because the only way to answer was with his whole heart, and Bilbo was eager to give it.
Thorin made a sound of pure longing, mouth opening slightly beneath Bilbo’s, and it was impossible not to steal another kiss, impossible not to tilt his head, press further, carefully lick the swell of Thorin’s lip, impossible not take advantage of the resulting soft moan to sweep in and kiss Thorin with passion of his own, possibly not as dramatic and explosive as the secretly romantic heart of his dwarf, but as full of the promise of pleasure and comfort as a hobbit could offer.