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“Heading up to the mountain in the morning,” Bofur warns, popping his head in through the overly large door. “Best get packed.”
“Right,” Bilbo says. He doesn’t point out that Durin’s Day is their deadline for the secret door. With a few days of travel still between them and the Lonely Mountain, they’d best be leaving soon.
Rather than swanning off as the rest of the dwarves seem to have, Bofur asks, “You feeling better?”
“Much.” His lingering cold from barrel-riding has largely abated. Even so, he’s in no mood to leave the warmth of his makeshift bedroom in the Lake-town house. To have a hobbit-sized bedroom on the ground floor, they’d rearranged one of the pantries, and the room still smells pleasantly of its original purpose. The cot is much too high and far too long, but Bilbo minds less now than he did in the grip of his cold.
“Some of us are heading out for some socialising,” Bofur continues. “It’s a bit tense inside. You could come along if you liked.”
“I... No, thank you. I don’t think I’m quite up to that.” He knows what sort of socialising may result from Bofur’s excursion, just as he knows from experience that he hardly wants to try again. Perhaps tonight is among last nights of his life, but he doesn’t want to waste it that way. He makes sure to smile and they part pleasantly enough for the evening.
If some of the dwarves are vacating the townhouse for the night, Bilbo reasons it might be less of a disaster outside of his room. For the meanwhile, at least. Trusting any structure to hold all fourteen members of the company at once is a terrible risk.
Taking his candle with him, he ventures into the sitting room. A general mumble of acknowledgement rumbles about the room, many of the dwarves already occupying the shorter chairs or low couches. Among them, the others bustle about, clearly on the verge of leaving.
All told, the company seems to be split into two camps: those who seek to celebrate this final night in town, and those who quietly prepare. Thorin, of course, falls in with the latter. By the looks on Fili and Kili’s faces, the brothers have been forced by their uncle into sharing his dignity. Balin stays, but Dwalin goes, taking Nori and Ori with him, Bofur too. Though they hardly seem relaxed, Dori and Bifur play a game of tiles in the corner. Still, it is always difficult to tell with Bifur. Bombur’s missing, most likely off to bed in the unending attempt to reclaim his enchanted dreams. Oin might be in bed already as well, and probably the happier for it. The room is largely silent, the tension terrible.
Coveting Gloin’s chair, Bilbo hovers nearby in the hopes that Gloin will also go, but his luck fails him. When the cheerful dwarves leave, Bilbo’s choice of seating ranges from the dangerously high stool, the half-broken armchair, or a shared spot upon one of the intact armchairs or sofas.
As he scans the room, he unintentionally catches Thorin’s eye. In answer, Thorin shifts from the centre of his armchair to the side, leaning on one of the arms. Bilbo stares questioningly at the invitation before accepting it for what it is. When he tries to climb up, Thorin offers him a hand and pulls him onto the cushion with ease. As Thorin has naturally claimed the largest armchair of the lot, there’s still some space between their elbows, but only some. Bilbo leans on his own armrest all the same, his feet dangling above the floor, unable to reach the ottoman Thorin uses.
“I hope Erebor is more to scale,” Bilbo jokes in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. “Everything is much too big in the houses of Men.”
“Erebor is far larger than this,” Thorin replies.
“Aye, but the chairs fit us,” Balin sighs.
Fili and Kili laugh, the sound only slightly forced. Gloin sports a distant smile.
Across the room, Bifur says something that provokes a chuckle from Dori.
“‘If the dragon hasn’t stretched them beyond repair’,” Thorin translates quietly. His hair falls momentarily upon Bilbo’s shoulder.
“Would a dragon nest on chairs?” Bilbo asks.
“If they were made of gold,” Gloin says.
“It’s fully possible,” Balin says.
“Those were gilded,” Dori disagrees. “If you’re talking about the set I think you’re talking about.”
“That sounds terribly uncomfortable,” Bilbo says.
Thorin makes a soft noise, a strange combination of amusement, annoyance and wistfulness. “They were.”
“Oh!” Bilbo looks up at him curiously. “I meant it was an odd nesting practice.”
“A proud one,” Balin explains. “Dragon underbellies are soft, lad, and easily encrusted. A dragon nesting on a field would go about with a grass-stained stomach, but a dragon on a pile of gold? That’s a fine waistcoat for him, and a formidable piece of defence at that. A dragon without a horde must make do with gravel.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to, I don’t know, lie down on an armoury then?”
“The worm doubtlessly has,” Thorin says.
When Bilbo frowns in confusion, Balin takes pity and explains, “The line between armament and ornament can be a blurry one with a skilled smith.”
Bifur says something from the corner that sounds like agreement. Bilbo picks out a pair of words. “Something about gold and steel?” he asks Thorin, leaning close and speaking quietly.
Thorin looks at him as if Bilbo has done something unexpected indeed. He nods slightly but doesn’t translate. Lovely. Bilbo ought to know by now: if he proves himself even slightly capable at any task, Thorin will leave him to flounder in it on his own.
“Would it still melt, then?” Bilbo asks. “All the gold he’s sitting on.”
Every dwarf in the room stares at Bilbo as if he had stabbed them all simultaneously, their expressions equal parts pain and bewilderment. The crackling of the fire grows terribly loud.
“I mean,” Bilbo hurriedly adds, “if I stood in front of a pile of gold, would he not breathe fire at me? Or if I held something fragile hostage, would he still try to crush me?”
The silence turns from horrified to appreciative. “I suppose he might not,” Balin says. “I’d not considered that.”
“Gandalf chose well for us indeed.” Thorin claps Bilbo on the shoulder. Perhaps claps is too rough a word. His touch is gentle for all it startles Bilbo. Though close quarters with the dwarves is commonplace, physical contact is far from the norm. Thorin’s hand is warm and heavy and absurdly large. “Your contingencies are well and good, but you would do best to avoid detection altogether.”
Bilbo stares up at him incredulously, a glib response on the tip of his tongue. When Thorin meets his gaze in complete, unironic seriousness, Bilbo sticks his hands into his pockets and says, “Dear me, I’ve no idea how I shall manage.”
With that, he slips on his ring.
The dwarves shout, a satisfying clamour. As Bilbo scrambles off the armchair, Thorin snags him by the back of his jacket. Fili and Kili burst into laughter, presumably at the sight of their uncle holding an invisible captive, and then Bilbo slips free from his jacket. He darts around to the back of the armchair, leaving Thorin holding the battered garment. Laughter from all around now, the dreadful seriousness of the evening vanished at last.
Everyone looks about for him, some calling his name, some standing to feel about in the air, but Bilbo avoids Fili’s outstretched arms with ease. He braves the climb to the top of the absurdly high stool and, once perched, removes his ring.
“There he is!” Gloin shouts, pointing. “Hop down, little bird!”
As if Bilbo’s trick was some clever feat, scattered applause breaks out. With more confidence than he feels, Bilbo braves the jump and stumbles forward into a slight bow. Laughter as well as clapping now, and Bilbo grins back at his companions.
Thorin, Bilbo notes, does not clap. He simply stands with Bilbo’s faded jacket over one arm. His expression is vague beneath the hair on his face, but Bilbo has learned to trust the tilt of Thorin’s eyebrows more than the angle of his mouth. As little as it appears to be one, that is a smile.
“That was a nice bit of practice,” Bilbo says, hiding his ring away in his pocket.
“I’d have thought you’d had enough of that with the elves,” Balin says.
“Fair point.” Just a bit horrible, living like a shadow. “But that does remind me. It’s been weeks since I’ve been able to have a smoke. Does anyone have a pipe I could borrow?” They’ve lost and replenished their supplies so many times, no one knows what belongs to anyone anymore in any case.
“Mine’s somewhere,” Fili offers the same moment Thorin says, “Take mine.”
Trusting Thorin’s taste in pipe-weed better than Fili’s, Bilbo accepts the first offer. He accepts his jacket back as well, Thorin tossing it to him before tromping upstairs. Though a twinge of guilt takes him for making Thorin play host, he assures himself all is well and sits once more in the vacated armchair. Around the room, bits of conversation begin.
Thorin returns soon, his strides long. Bilbo doesn’t move over in the armchair quickly enough and is pressed into the armrest by Thorin’s sheer presence. Thorin fills the pipe and tamps it down himself, looking darkly at Bilbo when Bilbo says he could do it himself. Bilbo knows better than to take offence. Dwarves can be very protective of their belongings.
Before Thorin hands the pipe over, Bifur begins to sing, a low, lovely tune in Dwarvish that Dori quickly joins. It has a productive, busy sound to it, neither sad nor warlike as the other songs the dwarves favour often are. Balin and Gloin come in on the chorus, Fili and Kili on the verse after that. Their young voices stumble somewhat. Bilbo finds himself humming along before he sees the aromatic smoke rising beside him.
Bilbo looks up at Thorin with the piteous expression he learned from Kili. It’s remarkably effective, if only because the impression amuses Thorin. With one last deep inhale, Thorin passes him the pipe.
The pipe-weed must have come from Lake-town but is pleasant enough even for Bilbo’s picky taste. As if the people of Lake-town would provide Thorin with anything else. Bilbo hums appreciatively before passing the pipe back. Back and forth they pass it as the night grows later, the songs older, more solemn. Though the mood in the sitting room never returns to its prior sense of dread, all traces of amusement fade. One by one, the older dwarves retire for the night. Dori first, then Balin.
In the absence of singing, Bilbo begins to blow smoke rings. Thorin joins in, blowing each of his rings through one of Bilbo’s with remarkable aim. When his eyes grow heavy, Bilbo hands the pipe back to Thorin and insists he finish it.
Gloin bids them a quiet goodnight. Soon after, Bifur says something presumably along the same lines. Resting his head against the wing of the armchair, Bilbo waves at him sleepily. He drifts for a time in the warmth of the fire and the steady presence of Thorin so close beside him.
It seems only a moment later that a hand on his arm eases him awake. A crick in his neck, Bilbo leans to the other side. Slowly, he realises his cheek now rests upon hair and furs. He sits up straight at that, blinking at the dying embers of the fire. The sitting room is very nearly dark, but he can still see Thorin’s face. Bilbo nearly apologises, but he knows what Thorin looks like when he wants an apology. At a loss for what to say, Bilbo says, “Golden chairs, really?”
“Three,” Thorin answers quietly. “A set.”
“For you and...?” He knows Thror’s throne had been stone, but he knows nothing of Thrain’s, or if Thrain even had one.
“For myself, my brother, and my sister.”
“Oh,” Bilbo says. The sister had been obvious through the existence of Fili and Kili and their occasional mutterings of but Mum used to say. They’d never mentioned another uncle. Bilbo looks to the sofa only to find the brothers have left as well. Only he and Thorin remain.
“Frerin died long before they were born,” Thorin says, answering the question in Bilbo’s glance.
“I’m sorry.”
“They would have annoyed him terribly.” There’s something almost fond in the way Thorin says this. “Dis was the strange one between the three of us, wanting children.”
Bilbo looks up at him in the dwindling light of the fire. It occurs to him that after the gloom of Mirkwood and furtive days whispering through a locked keyhole, he knows Thorin’s face better shrouded in darkness than he does lit. “Is that usual?” Bilbo asks. “For dwarves, I mean.”
“We have a greater love of crafting metal than of creating lives,” Thorin replies. “What of hobbits?”
Bilbo laughs quietly, a nervous sound in the empty sitting room. “We grow, as a rule. Crops, families, it’s all the same.” He clasps his hands together in his lap. “That’s what’s done, you know.”
Thorin looks at him oddly. “And if it isn’t done?”
Bilbo stares back, at a complete loss. “I... don’t understand what you mean.”
“What I ask is simple enough. Is it so unusual for hobbits to ignore procreation?”
“I, um, well. I suppose we don’t have as much to distract us. And, uh, farming, you know. Needs children. So. That... happens.”
Somehow, it is Thorin who looks as if Bilbo is speaking absurdities. “No one chooses otherwise?”
Bilbo thinks of lads chided into marrying lasses and lasses shamed into marrying lads. Rarely, a pair of lads or lasses would run off to Bree together, but Bilbo isn’t certain this is what Thorin means.
“If I understand you correctly,” Bilbo begins slowly, “you mean that even should you, er, when you, I mean. When you reclaim your throne, you don’t intend to have children?”
“I am fortunate to have two heirs already,” Thorin answers, as simple as that.
“But if you didn’t,” Bilbo says.
“Fortunately, I do.”
“But if you didn’t. What would you do?”
“I would perform my duty,” Thorin answers, and something inside Bilbo tears in disappointment. He becomes strangely aware of their elbows and the touching cloth of their sleeves. “I am glad it will not come to that,” Thorin adds, and that same something repairs itself into something slightly broken and very confused. “Reclaiming Erebor will be contribution enough to the line of Durin.”
“Have you never, then?” Bilbo asks, his whisper pre-emptively apologetic.
“I have never known the need.” Thorin speaks plainly and without shame. “Have you?”
Bilbo feels he must flush from head to foot and curls his toes reflexively. He squeezes his hands in his lap more tightly than before. “I’ve, I’ve done that, yes.”
“That was not my question, Master Hobbit. Have you known the need?”
Bilbo twists uncomfortably in the armchair and thinks strongly of retreating to his bedroom. “Would I have done it if I hadn’t?”
“Gloin has had his son without knowing the need.”
Though Thorin’s face is lost to shadows, Bilbo stares at him all the same. He opens his mouth only to close it, only to open it anew.
“You know of what I speak,” Thorin says. “Why do you feign ignorance?”
“It’s not, well. It isn’t hobbit-like, I’m afraid. Dwarves can do as they will, but things are different in the Shire.” Bilbo nods to punctuate this statement.
“We are not in the Shire.”
“Not, but... You know what I mean.”
“I do, though I find it alarming.”
Bilbo chuckles nervously. He unclenches his hands. “The Shire, alarming?”
For a time, Thorin is quiet. Bilbo remains beside him until he believes the conversation must be at an end, such a disappointing and strange end. He begins to climb down from the armchair only for Thorin to catch his arm.
“Vanishing again?” Thorin asks.
Bilbo sits back down. “Was there something else?” Anything else?
“Did you enjoy the act?”
Bilbo very nearly chokes on his own tongue.
Thorin waits.
“Inexperience always makes the first time terrible, I’m told,” Bilbo says as bravely as he can.
Thorin nods in the dark, the shifting of his hair over cloth and fur audible in the silence. Though a nod, it is not, perhaps, a motion of agreement. “Did you enjoy what came after?”
“After?” Bilbo frowns, thinking of sweat and blushes and disappointment in lovely brown eyes.
“Resting together.”
“That didn’t happen.” He’d run home as quickly as he could and they’d never spoken of it again.
“A pity.”
It occurs to Bilbo very abruptly that Thorin is still touching his arm. It occurs to Bilbo because Thorin begins to move his thumb in gentle, soothing circles, as if Bilbo is a horse about to bolt.
“What are you doing?” Bilbo asks. He oughtn’t be able to speak with all the air vanished from his lungs, but ask it, he does. It comes out as something of a squeak.
Thorin lets his hand fall. Bilbo’s arm freezes in its absence, his flesh prickling beneath his shirtsleeve. “I had intended to ask you something tonight,” Thorin replies. “Despite my hopes otherwise, it seems a night for final chances.”
Utterly confused, Bilbo gapes at the shadow that is Thorin Oakenshield. “Excuse me,” he says. “I need to light a candle.”
He flees from the armchair and stumbles to the hearth. Unlike Dwarves, the Big People of Lake-town are believers in matches, and Bilbo finds the matchbox by feel. He finds a candle by light of a match and then dithers about. Lest his stalling grow too obvious, though obvious it must certainly be, Bilbo returns to sit upon the footstool rather than the armchair. Thorin’s boot-shod feet rest by his hip.
“What, um. Sorry, you were going to ask something...?”
Be it from candlelight or his own inner fire, Thorin’s eyes gleam. “I would sleep beside you tonight.”
Bilbo nearly nods, the automatic reaction of a polite listener. He stops himself in time, befuddled by the request. “Beside, meaning...?”
“Upon the same bed, beneath the same blankets.”
“And by ‘sleep,’ you do mean sleeping?”
Remarkably, rather than becoming annoyed by Bilbo’s questions, Thorin softens, if Thorin can ever be said to soften. The corundum of his soul becomes merely feldspar, his steel replaced by iron, but it makes little difference to a hobbit of soil and grass. With the utmost seriousness, Thorin answers, “I promise to touch you in no way, should that be your wish.”
“It isn’t,” Bilbo says, surprising himself. “I mean, I don’t, I don’t want... that. But.”
“Good.” Thorin stands. The candle gutters in Bilbo’s hand as the air shifts about them. “Then you’ll come?”
Hot wax spills onto Bilbo’s fingers, a light singe of heat he forgets to feel. “Now?”
“The hour is late.”
“It is.” Bilbo stands. In for a penny. “Your bedroom or mine?”
“Mine.” Thorin takes the candle from him and leads the way. Bilbo follows awkwardly up the steep stairs, hesitant of hovering and afraid to lag. Though the top of Bilbo’s head usually reaches no higher than the outmost edges of Thorin’s shoulders, the immense stairs worsen the height difference dramatically. Bilbo wouldn’t be surprised to be kicked in the face.
From the landing, Thorin continues directly on toward his bedroom. He opens the tall door and there stops, turning to look back down the hall. Bilbo hesitates, at once annoyed and relieved by the utter lack of romance. He hardly expects Dwarven poetry and, indeed, would likely turn tail at the first sign of it, but he does expect something.
Unless, of course, this is that something. Thorin standing in the doorway, one hand cradled about the small flame, silently watching. He does not seek to sway or coax, just as he does not cajole or command. He simply waits upon Bilbo’s decision.
Bilbo pads forward. The floorboards which creaked beneath Thorin’s weight and boots make no sound beneath his feet.
Thorin sees Bilbo inside before moving to light the lamp by his bedside. The bed is an absurd creation, nearly as wide as it is long. Four of Bilbo could lie spread-eagled without touching. An entire family of Big People might sleep in it comfortably, should they be town folk and not a large, country family. It seems a ridiculous extravagance, even for a guest house.
Belatedly, Bilbo realises it falls upon him to shut the door. He does so readily, though the doorknob is curiously off to the side and at the height of his shoulder. Perhaps someday that will stop feeling so strange.
With a small hop, Thorin perches on the edge of the bed. His knees rest at the height of Bilbo’s chest. He loosens his heavy boots, the left before the right. Each thunks onto the floor. Bilbo nearly giggles at the resulting sight: Thorin wears little cloth bags over his feet. Darned and greying, they look to be Ori’s handiwork.
“Does something amuse you?” Thorin asks dryly.
Bilbo shakes his head. This is not amusement, not quite. He draws nearer as Thorin strips off the knit bags and drops them onto the floor. Beneath these many layers, the skin of Thorin’s feet is pale, as if it has never known sunlight. A dark, oddly straight brown, the hair is sparse. Thickest at the ankle and over the arch, it dwindles drastically by the outside of his foot. Only a few tufts of hair grace his toes. Though his toenails are remarkably smooth, he has bits of lint between his small toes.
“Is this the same?”
Bilbo lifts his head at the quiet question. “The same as...?”
In answer, Thorin touches his cheek. Bilbo’s eyes do something very strange, as if at once attempting to roll back in his head, to glaze over, and to shut entirely. Whatever the result may be, it gives rise to a distinct brand of smugness in Thorin’s eyes. His palm upturned, his fingertips upon Bilbo’s jaw, Thorin brushes the light fuzz of Bilbo’s skin.
“I suppose it is.” He looks down, bumping his chin farther into Thorin’s hand. With careful fingers, Bilbo touches the hair at Thorin’s ankle. The texture surprises him, though he could not say how. It is not strange enough to feel so unfamiliar. He moves lower, brushing down the sparse hairs with no true impact. Where Thorin’s foot is bald, it is oddly smooth. “You’ve boyish feet.”
“Is that a compliment among hobbits?” Thorin asks. He begins to shrug out of his many layers, unbinding belts and untying laces. Though the October night may be cool, the house is snug and warm.
“It’s a compliment here.” He dips his fingers down, curious, and touches the sole only an instant before Thorin’s leg jerks out of his grasp and nearly kicks him in the stomach. Thorin’s hands fly to grip the blankets.
They blink at each other in the lamplight.
Slowly, visibly tense, Thorin resumes his original position. “If you must, use a firm touch.”
Frowning, Bilbo takes the offer at face value. The skin of Thorin’s sole possesses the tender texture its faint colouring suggests. This is the foot of a young, indoor scholar, not that of a warrior king. Some calluses at the heel and ball of the foot, but the poor arch is nearly delicate. As if to prove this, Thorin’s toes curl without provocation, his foot twisting back and forth with involuntary twitches.
“Are you all right?” Bilbo asks.
“Fine,” Thorin answers in a tight voice.
The Tookish part of Bilbo immediately curls his fingers. Thorin nearly yelps, swinging his legs up under himself and tucking his feet out of reach.
“Do you mean to mock me or do you mean to sleep?” Thorin demands.
“I never mean to mock you,” Bilbo replies, “so I must mean to sleep.” It is endearing to know the feet of dwarves are such as the bellies of dragons.
Thorin studies his face for a long, weighing moment. With a nod, he accepts the apology. He gathers up his many discarded layers, folds them into an efficient, belt-bound bundle, and drops them to the floor. Though this is hardly the first time Bilbo has seen Thorin in his long underwear, it’s certainly his first time being alone with Thorin and the long underwear.
For his part, Bilbo shucks his jacket and waistcoat. He folds them carefully to make certain his ring doesn’t fall out of the pocket. Lacking an undershirt, he keeps his shirt on, pushing down his braces and removing his trousers instead. There’s a wash basin beneath one of the shuttered windows, and it is there Bilbo dampens a cloth to clean his feet. Out in the wild is one thing, but it is never good manners to bring dirty feet into a bed.
Though now shifted beneath the blankets, Thorin still watches him, as if Bilbo were engaged in a task curious and foreign. Bilbo smiles at such an unlikely thought. Thorin is certainly the strange one tonight, so unexpectedly small without his furs and metal.
He dries his feet on a spot of rug, then rubs each ankle with the gap between first and second toe. The second is more nervous habit than necessity. Thorin continues to wait.
Rather than make a fool of himself, Bilbo comes round to Thorin’s side and reaches up for a freely offered hand. Thorin hoists him with little effort, a feat of strength which shouldn’t surprise him. A cliff on the Misty Mountains hadn’t bothered Thorin. What is a bed compared to that?
A bed is soft, for one, its edge rounded and perfectly willing to sink beneath Bilbo until he’s in danger of falling off it. Even so, Thorin does not budge from where he sits.
“Could you move over?” Bilbo asks.
“No.”
Bilbo stares at him. “But you’ve an acre of mattress behind you.”
“I sleep on the right.” As the smooth stretch of undisturbed blanket would imply.
“Oh,” says Bilbo. Scrambling over Thorin feels foolish when such a great expanse extends from their feet to the foot of the bed, but Bilbo takes the direct route all the same. He’s not entirely sure where to stop once he’s over. Rather than flee to the other side of the bed, Bilbo plops down with Thorin still within reach, the gap between them shorter than his arm but only just.
Slipping beneath the blankets is comparable to hiding under a tarp. Much softer, though. Bilbo turns onto his right side, as is his custom, and nestles with a hand curled before his mouth. Not at all surprisingly, Thorin’s bed is much softer than Bilbo’s cot. It’s lovely.
He hears Thorin shifting in front of him before a puff of breath extinguishes the light. More shifting. Thorin settles down. When Bilbo peeks in the darkness, he finds Thorin lying on his side. With both of them so positioned, the gap between them abruptly becomes negligible. In a vague sort of way, Bilbo considers edging backward, but he sees little point in it. Thorin’s breathing is steadying for all it’s dwarvishly loud.
Does he snore? Bilbo can’t remember. Odd that he can’t remember. So many nights in Mirkwood with Thorin’s bedroll beside his, but he’d never sorted out which snores came from whom. Save for Bombur’s, of course. Deciding it’s much too late to worry about snoring now, Bilbo closes his eyes and enjoys feeling warm. This lasts for perhaps a minute.
“Wait, hold on.” Bilbo props himself up on one elbow. “When exactly did you decide to ask?”
“When subtlety failed,” Thorin whispers in reply.
“Er. How badly?”
“Extremely.”
“Oh dear. That’s rather embarrassing.”
“Much interrupted me,” Thorin explains. “My temper was such in Mirkwood that I decided not to act there.”
Bilbo settles back down. Though he can readily see the logic in that decision, he knows better than to agree with it aloud. Thorin’s temper and wounded pride are bad enough when he and Bilbo are fully clothed and standing apart, let alone sharing a blanket in their undergarments.
“During my imprisonment,” Thorin adds quietly, “I became more resolute. At first regretful, then resolute.”
Bilbo eases closer. “Was it very cold in your cell?”
Their elbows bump. “I have known worse cold.”
“But was it very cold?”
“I would have preferred more warmth.” With that, Thorin’s hand closes about his.
Thorin’s is a very large hand. Rough as well. Bilbo’s hand is quite swallowed up by it. At once remarkable and absurd how someone only a head taller can have hands so much greater in size. Though the weight of the hand is heavy and the weight of the attached forearm heavier still, the grip is light. He realises he could pull away, but the act seems irrational in the extreme.
So held, he lies still, his mind racing. It occurs to him that Thorin thought of him while locked away. He’s never thought of himself as a source of comfort, much less as a light in the darkness. He thinks of Thorin locked away and stripped of his weapons. He thinks of Thorin unarmed and imprisoned and placing his life into invisible hands. He thinks of Thorin thinking of him at night and wanting him, and of this being a night.
He still has no idea what Thorin wants of him, none, but he knows that while this leaves him confused, it doesn’t leave him profoundly uncomfortable, and being wanted always leaves him profoundly uncomfortable. What is this, then? He doesn’t know. Perhaps he ought to ask. Certainly, he ought to reply. Perhaps he ought to breathe as well, but if he breathes, there will be air in his lungs, and if there is air in his lungs, he might be expected to say something with it.
Though Bilbo’s tension must be plain as day to him, Thorin doesn’t misunderstand. He does not remove his hand. He simply waits, as if dwarven courtship primarily features emulating rocks or anvils or other hard objects dwarves find attractive. If so, he’s doing a lovely job of it, but it’s still not very helpful. When Bilbo peeks, Thorin’s eyes are closed. Not very helpful at all.
Before Bilbo can determine whether he too is meant to pretend to be a pebble, a great clamour erupts beneath the floorboards. The tromping of heavy, uncoordinated feet and bursts of drunken song aren’t precisely unexpected, but Bilbo had forgotten how loud certain members of the company can be when the mood strikes them.
He groans lowly, reflexively, and slides his hand out from beneath Thorin’s to cover his ear. He shoves his head a bit deeper into the pillow as well. The singing continues below, even with Ori shouting at the top of his lungs, “We must be quiet: everyone is sleeping!”
For his part, Thorin exhales a sound between a growl and a grumble. Whether at the dwarves below or at Bilbo’s withdrawal, it is difficult to tell. Bilbo might as well scrutinise a granite wall for all Thorin’s shadowy face reveals. In attempted compromise, Bilbo touches his toes to Thorin’s knee.
For a moment, this appears to be enough. Then Thorin reaches out his hand, grasps Bilbo by the nape, and hauls Bilbo against his chest. Bilbo finds himself twisted on his side, his left ear against a boulder of a body, his right smothered by a wide palm. His chin digs into his right shoulder somewhat, but this is better than having his face pressed flat into the pillow. It is very nearly comfortable despite being terribly uncomfortable, and the contradiction of it is what distracts Bilbo into relaxing. When Thorin shifts, the rustling of cloth blocks out all other sounds, save for the rhythm of Thorin’s heart.
“Oh,” Bilbo says. He burrows closer, brushing Thorin’s hair away from his mouth. A slim braid falls onto his forehead all the same. It doesn’t tickle. Though Thorin is exceptionally warm, the metal bead at the end of the braid is surprisingly cool. Bilbo closes his eyes against the darkness. He smiles faintly at the fingertips discovering the edge of his ear.
The sound of that light touch can hardly counteract the ruckus downstairs, but Thorin’s heartbeat serves as a thorough distraction. Strong and steady, but growing slower. Had it raced for a moment? Or is this simply the body of a dwarf about to sleep?
Bilbo listens, breathing, feeling. There is an arm over his head, folded. There is another arm over his side, around his back and holding a significant portion of his head. Bilbo lies on his right arm, his left arm a nuisance between their chests. He breathes into an increasingly humid pocket of air between their bodies and beneath Thorin’s folded arm. His neck begins to ache, turned too far to the side. He nearly moves, needs to move and find more air, but Thorin plays with the tip of his ear in an idle, considering way that curls Bilbo’s toes.
Eventually, that motion gives way to another. Thorin cups the back of his head, the entire back of it. With great relief, Bilbo lifts his ear from Thorin’s chest, turns his head for air, and wriggles his left arm out from underneath him. He settles down with both arms between them, hands beneath his cheek. This is lovely until the thrill of breathing wears off. Then Bilbo nudges closer.
A prickle at his forehead proves to be Thorin’s beard. Somewhat like a thick brush, it is remarkably not unpleasant. Thorin’s breath stirs Bilbo’s hair lightly, warmly, and this is better still. The large hand shifts until a heavy palm presses over Bilbo’s ear, muffling the singing once more. Remarkably pampered, Bilbo sighs his contentment.
The scrape of hair at his brow continues, becoming deliberate indeed. Was that a kiss? That might have been a kiss. He doesn’t mind them, like that. There is nothing wrong with a gentle, dry press.
Bilbo reaches up with careful fingers, finding chest, then throat, then jaw. Thorin pulls his head back at the touch. Bilbo lowers his hand instantly.
“I will grow it long when Erebor is reclaimed,” Thorin whispers. Explanation or apology?
“Then I’d definitely wake with hair in my mouth,” Bilbo replies.
Though no smile likely touches Thorin’s face, the expression is readily felt in his arm atop Bilbo’s side. A strange sensation, this twining of tension and amusement within another’s body. He wonders if it is shameful for a dwarf to wear his beard short. He nearly wonders if it is thought ugly, but he discards that notion immediately.
“I run that risk enough already,” Bilbo adds. He touches the long hair over Thorin’s chest.
Thorin’s palm slides from Bilbo’s ear to cradle the back of his head once more. Thorin hunches upon the bed, lowering his head more to Bilbo’s level. Even lying down, they are misaligned. Thorin’s nose nudges Bilbo’s forehead, then his eyebrow. Hot breath brushes against his eyelids.
When it begins to brush lower, Bilbo tucks his chin, hiding his mouth. Thorin’s thumb presses on the tip of his ear, Thorin’s fingers adjusting in his hair. Bilbo keeps his face angled as it is. Only when his pulse begins to fill his ears does he realise the singing downstairs has largely stopped.
Thorin’s fingers drift to his chin, a slow, exploratory motion over the smoothness of his cheek. Though Thorin touches his jaw, he does not seek to lift Bilbo’s face. Bilbo pulls deeper into himself all the same, simply waiting for Thorin’s patience to run out, for the issue to be forced.
Outside in the hall, someone tromps up the stairs and stumbles against the wall. Someone else, snickering, accompanies them. Such goings on serve as welcome distractions.
At last, the moment comes. Thorin presses their foreheads together. Bilbo freezes, unable to decide whether to flee this comfort or to see it ruined. Thorin shakes his head the slightest amount. Their noses bump. But an inch from Bilbo’s mouth, he whispers, “Tell me what I must not do.”
Bilbo’s throat stoppers up. He turns his face toward the mattress. Perhaps if he simply rolled over, that would be enough. But then he would have to take his hand off Thorin’s chest, and how long has he been touching him, exactly?
“Where will you not be touched?” Thorin rephrases.
“Mouth,” Bilbo whispers.
What follows is worse than expected. A row would be hardly out of the norm. Negotiation wouldn’t be out of the question. Being ignored entirely, this too was a possibility.
Instead, Thorin pauses. Thorin pauses, and then he nods. But he pauses first, a jarring moment of disappointment that reaches deep inside Bilbo before wrenching out his innards. He pauses and he nods, the acceptance of someone exercising kindness in the face of a loss.
Thorin wanted this in Mirkwood, a guilty piece of Bilbo’s mind reminds him. While locked away and alone, he’d thought of Bilbo, thought of him as a comfort against the darkness and cold. To fall short of that brings such a terrible shame. If Thorin wanted to kiss him, perhaps he could. Not for long, only a little. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe dwarves don’t put their tongues in.
“I mean,” Bilbo begins, but Thorin shushes him.
“Breathe with me.”
Dwarven breathing is loud and easily followed, though Bilbo cannot see the point in this. In one breath, out the other. The rise and fall of Thorin’s chest beneath his hand. The scent of stale smoke mingling between their mouths. Slow, steady, and when Bilbo yawns into Thorin’s face, their noses rub.
Once begun, the motion is oddly difficult to stop. Bilbo’s nose slips lower, brushing against the short hairs of Thorin’s moustache. Thorin chuckles and pushes his jaw forward. His beard scrapes over Bilbo’s cheek, neither rough nor soft. Lying cheek-to-cheek, Bilbo is once again left with a small pocket of air between Thorin and the pillow. Everything smells of fur and leather, of metal and sweat. And dirt. A fortnight in a town after a ride down a river, and Thorin still smells of dirt.
He begins to giggle and cannot seem to stop. He giggles nearly silently, at once unrepentant and convinced Thorin is about to take offence. Instead, Thorin merely pulls him closer, securing Bilbo against his chest and trapping his arms between their bodies. He cups Bilbo’s head, as he seems very fond of doing, and with that, the brick wall of Thorin loses its mortar. He sags somewhat, a great weight of bone and muscle. Bilbo accepts the burden gladly. At least, while he can still breathe.
When the humidity once again grows too great, he taps on Thorin’s chest. There’s an odd quality there, a sort of springiness beneath the cloth. The hair on Thorin’s chest must curl. Bilbo taps again until Thorin budges, a sleepy motion. Was he asleep?
“Can’t breathe,” he explains.
Thorin grunts. “Roll over.”
Bilbo does so. Thorin holds him in place before slotting his much larger body behind him. The tops of Thorin’s thighs press against the bottoms of Bilbo’s, Thorin’s chest to his back. Though lying on their sides, here is a lap to sit in. Warm breath tickles the back of Bilbo’s head. A strong arm wraps about his front. Another arm slips beneath his head in lieu of a pillow. All is warm and secure.
“Can you breathe?” Bilbo thinks to ask.
“Yes. Sleep.”
Bilbo wraps his arms about Thorin’s forearm, presses that large hand all the firmer against his shoulder. As if eliminating slack from a tied rope, Thorin tugs him tighter against his chest.
“I’m not sure I want to sleep,” Bilbo confesses into the dark. Another yawn cracks his jaw.
“That will pass.” Thorin’s hand shifts upon him. “...Is your chest bare?”
“What? Thorin, your hand is on my shirt.”
“Of hair.”
“Oh. Yes. As bald as your feet, I’m afraid.”
“My feet are not bald.”
“They’re a bit bald.”
Thorin presses his face into the back of Bilbo’s head. He breathes deeply, clearly closing that line of conversation. His chest moves against Bilbo’s back, slow and inexorable. His hand grips Bilbo’s shirt at the shoulder, an incongruously loose hold for how firmly Bilbo is tucked against him.
Torn between tired contentment and an itching, unspecified want, Bilbo squirms. He knows they begin their journey to the mountain in the morning, he knows he ought to sleep and Thorin as well, but this will end come morning and he still doesn’t quite know what he wants from it.
“Enough of that,” Thorin whispers, his words more tired than chastising. “Sleep.”
Bilbo squirms a bit more.
Thorin sighs and, slowly, begins to roll on top of him.
Bilbo squeaks but to no avail. He turns his face rather than meet his pillow nose-first. Thorin’s weight settles onto his back, an impossible load that fails to crush him. He is covered from head to foot, a warm, inescapable press over every inch of him. Thorin’s hair falls over the side of his neck. Slow and regular, Thorin’s heart beats against his back. It calls Bilbo’s to follow, to stroll rather than race, and the ambling walk is pleasant in his chest.
“Can you breathe?” Thorin asks.
He nods slightly, unable to move any more than this, unable to speak. Secured precisely where he wants to be, he turns limp, relaxed. It is quite nearly like being snug underground.
Sleep takes him much too rapidly. The night passes in vague snatches of hard elbows and spitting out hair. Dream and reality blur in patches. A thousand times, he resists the dawn.
Morning arrives all the same. He realises this slowly, a pain in his neck and another in his back. His cheek rests on cloth with springy hairs beneath. Someone is touching his hair. Everything is lovely, even the aches. All is warm, and languid, and he would sleep again solely to wake up anew.
He snuffles a bit. Idle fingers continue to toy with his hair. In the house around them, floorboards creak. An autumn breeze taps upon the shutters. Here and there, the low rumble of indistinct speech can be heard. Still, there is no whiff of breakfast, and Bilbo will not be moving a single inch until he smells breakfast.
So resolved, he attempts to linger in his dwindling bubble of contentment. It fades much too rapidly, regardless of Thorin’s interest in the top of his head.
At last, Bilbo folds his arms upon Thorin’s chest and looks him in the beard. “Good morning,” he says.
Thorin’s hand falls from his head to his shoulder as Thorin adjusts, lifting his head from the pillow. “A quick judgement.”
“But a thorough one,” Bilbo replies, chin upon his folded arms. This seems to please Thorin.
Outside in the hall, boots tromp their way to the stairs. The talk grows more distinct.
Bilbo stares at the door, realising his judgement wasn’t thorough in the slightest. “Do, er.” He sits up, folding his legs beneath him, his knee against Thorin’s hip. The lack of contact is jarring. “Should I sneak out then?”
“You’ve shown off enough last night,” Thorin answers. “There isn’t much more good cheer it could bring.”
“...Right.” Bilbo rubs at his nose.
Thorin sits up and stretches, his bones audibly popping. “We’d best be down. We’re to board the boats by midmorning.”
“Right,” Bilbo repeats.
They climb down from the bed, Thorin hopping, Bilbo jumping. They dress, Bilbo simply and rapidly, Thorin as deliberately as if his furs were dignity made tangible. This only amuses Bilbo when Thorin sits upon the floorboards to clothe his feet. It’s a very faint amusement, the last breath of joy before their long trek up to the Lonely Mountain where Bilbo will likely be burnt to a crisp. But it is a breath of joy all the same.
Thorin secures the bindings about his boots with strong, sharp tugs, motions surely of habit for he does not look at his hands. He looks instead at Bilbo, a weighing gaze.
Bilbo tilts his head in silent question.
“I would know your thoughts.”
“About...? Oh! Um.” Bilbo takes a moment to think, so as to have such thoughts. “Well, I think if I return home—when, I mean, when—I will live alone and laugh at anyone who insists I must be lonely. That’s what I think.” It becomes true as he says it. He needs only to survive a dragon for it to become reality as well.
“A fair plan,” Thorin allows, “though I would know your more immediate reaction.”
“To...? Yes. Very lovely.” He sticks his hands into his pockets and curls his fingers about his ring. He does not intend to hide, but it gives him comfort that he might. “Still, only for special occasions, I think.”
Sitting upon the floor, Thorin nods. Without a hand upon him to know the tension of his body, Bilbo can’t read the extent of his disappointment. Perhaps that’s for the best.
“I am glad to know this sort of thing happens,” Bilbo adds.
“I find it remarkable you didn’t,” Thorin answers. His hands rest upon the secured bindings of his boot, but he doesn’t rise.
Bilbo shrugs a little and doesn’t try to explain the terrible conversations with his father when he was young, all that horrid talk about the urges he was going to have, urges that never came. It had all sounded a pitifully poor joke, the thought of hobbits drawn to more than food and ale and smoke, more than warm sunlight upon tilled soil.
Feeling very small, he looks down at his feet and makes a very big decision.
He walks forward. His feet stop beside Thorin’s knee. Thorin looks up at him, face lifted, and this ought to make it easier when Bilbo stoops. He’s not quite sure how to go about it, only knows to put one hand upon Thorin’s fur-covered shoulder and to tilt his head. He brings his mouth next to Thorin’s, against it, and the sensation of so much short hair against his face distracts him from his fear.
With a gentle touch, Thorin takes him once more by the head with one wide hand. He angles Bilbo and nudges closer. The contact is firmer, as if this is something to be desired. All Bilbo feels in Thorin’s dry lips is the hint of teeth beneath.
Thorin finds something more. This is clear in his shoulders, in the lifting of his chin. His rough hand contains only gentleness. The breath from his nose is soft upon Bilbo’s face. He keeps his lips together, his tongue inoffensive.
When the awkwardness of the kiss grows too much, Bilbo pulls back. Thorin’s fingertips remain upon him, lingering. His eyes search Bilbo’s face, a careful inspection for any reciprocating desire.
An apology forms within Bilbo’s mouth, but he feels neither doubt nor inadequacy. He feels, instead, very brave.
“There are no perfect matches,” Thorin replies as if having heard apologies unspoken. “There is no shame in that, though it is a pity.”
Bilbo nods. He wonders vaguely how his life would have changed had a dwarf given him his father’s lecture when he was young.
Thorin stands and Bilbo stands beside him.
“I smell sausages,” Bilbo says.
In lieu of reply, Thorin places one hand upon Bilbo’s shoulder. He leans down slightly, acceptably, and he presses his lips to one closed eye and then the other. He holds there upon the second eye, exhaling slowly through his nose.
“Oh,” says Bilbo. The heat of Thorin’s breath and the tickle of his beard encompass him, folding him up inside a tiny world. It is a lovely world, very private and warm, but it is difficult to linger in and does not contain sausages. But it is a lovely world.
Thorin pulls back, releasing him, and opens the door. Bilbo smiles up at him as they exit into the hall, and he climbs down the stairs with a wistful sort of sadness that is good to know.