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During his long first life, Bilbo Baggins had often found himself tongue-tied, flustered, completely stymied. But never before had he felt so helpless and unsure of what he should do. Even in his first life, facing this exact same choice, he had never wavered as much as he did now.
From behind him, inside Bag-End, he could hear the raucous laughter of the dwarves, and he let out a sigh even as it felt as if his heart smiled.
In there were fourteen of the greatest friends he had ever known, and yes, he counted Gandalf. For it had been Gandalf who had been there, in the end, helping him onto the boat, kind and gracious Gandalf. But it wasn’t Gandalf who had him all tied up in knots.
Balin was in there, alive as ever, as were Oin and Ori. Frodo had told him of their demise, of their fate in Moria, and Bilbo had cursed the ill fortune that seemed to favor the dwarves. But they were inside, and with them were Kili and Fili. Their memory had never faded, not once. Not in all his long years.
And with them, the best and worst of them all, was Thorin.
He took in a deep breath and looked up at the stars. He’d asked for a moment to himself to think it over, when he’d been presented with the contract. Especially after Bofur had been…well, Bofur. At least he hadn’t fainted this time, though that was hardly any satisfaction, especially when he was sitting out on his bench and fretting about what to do next.
When he’d awoken here, in Hobbiton, in Bag-End, with a face he hadn’t seen in eighty some years, he’d been surprised to say the least. Then he’d realized just not where he was, but when, and then Gandalf had come calling, and it had been all he could do to answer in some sort of fashion. And now here he was, wondering if this was really the Undying Lands as he’d been promised, or if some twist of fate across the waters had brought him here again.
And worse yet, if it had been fate, what in Eru’s name did it expect him to do?
He fiddled with the pipe he’d caught on his way out and filled it with a bit too much leaf. He’d still smoke it: the stronger burn would help him focus, help him relax.
It was funny, he mused. He had fourteen guests, fourteen old and dear friends, and yet he’d never felt so lonely before in his life.
Because they weren’t his friends, the ones he’d journeyed with to Erebor. They weren’t his Bofur and Gloin and Dori. They weren’t his Fili and Kili. This wasn’t…this wasn’t his Thorin. None of them had recognized him, upon entering Bag-End. It seemed only Bilbo had gotten the memories of the life before. And it left him aching inside and unsure of what to do next.
He drew in a strong breath of his pipe and about choked on it. Perhaps a bit too much leaf. Just because he was suddenly all of fifty years again didn’t mean he should smoke like that. He’d shown Thorin how to make smoke rings, once, while they’d stayed in Esgaroth before venturing up to Erebor. Thorin had scolded him for smoking after having just gotten over being ill, but Bilbo had been adamant about having his pipe, and finally Thorin had allowed him to. That night had been one of the best of Bilbo’s memories: Thorin warm beside him when the dwarf had worried about his catching a chill outside, sharing the pipe when Thorin’s own hadn’t been found, a future of possibilities in Thorin’s smile and the careful kiss he’d laid upon Bilbo’s forehead.
Then there’d been Erebor and Smaug and the Arkenstone and the battle. And that had been the end of that.
Time had tempered the pain, and the memories had become bittersweet in Bilbo’s effort to hold onto them. But with a living and breathing Thorin right there, in Bag-End behind him, it was hard to not feel the thump-thump-thump of his racing heart.
And that, incidentally, was where the problem was.
That Thorin, from that night so long ago, was gone. This would be a new Thorin, no matter how Bilbo acted. Things would change – Bilbo was hardly the same hobbit he’d been in his first life, things would be changed because of that alone – and the Thorin who had grown to respect him, grown to care for him, he wouldn’t be the same. And the thought of traveling with Thorin, having to fight to get past the dwarf's walls again, to try and even get a small part of that respect again, it sounded horrible and so heartbreaking that, quite honestly, Bilbo wasn’t certain if he could. There was only so much heartache one should have to suffer in even one lifetime, let alone two.
But if he stayed here, if he didn’t go with them, Thorin would die. Azog would find them and Thorin would die. That was if the trolls and goblins didn’t get to them first.
His fingers, which had been playing with his pipe, jerked at the thought, and his pipe clattered to the ground, spilling ashes everywhere. Bilbo buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe. “You can’t do this journey twice, Bilbo Baggins,” he murmured. “You can’t watch him die again.”
Because even if he took what could be a second chance, as it were, that didn’t mean that Thorin would live, that he could save the dwarf from the gold sickness. And above everything else, Bilbo refused to watch him die again. He refused.
“Master Baggins?”
Bilbo whipped his head up towards his door, where the very subject of his thoughts stood. “Tho-Master Oakenshield. Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” Bilbo said, and he shook himself. He hastily gathered up his pipe and stood: ever the perfect host. Even if staring at one of his closest friends and, perhaps, the only one his heart had ever called for, left him feeling as if he’d shatter into a thousand pieces.
Thorin was looking at him oddly. Or, Bilbo thought bitterly, exactly how he’d looked at Bilbo the first time through: with derision and scorn. Except it didn’t seem quite like that. Perhaps his firm response of, “Blade,” in regards to Thorin’s opening question to him, had left a better impression with the dwarf. And he’d made certain that Thorin’s favorite meal, potatoes with a meat gravy, just happened to have been waiting for him in the oven, safe from the other dwarves. Never mind the dessert of raspberry tarts. And there was a bowl of leaves waiting for Thorin, providing he hadn’t lost his pipe – though Thorin always lost his pipe, it had never been where he’d placed it last so Bilbo had just started sharing his – and Bilbo remembered it having been Thorin’s favorite kind.
And why he was thinking about all the effort he’d gone into today in order to impress Thorin the second time around, he didn’t know. Or perhaps he was arguing with himself as to why he’d gone to all those lengths if he wasn’t planning on joining them.
“Master Baggins?”
Certainly a way to impress: ignore the dwarf. If there was anything Thorin hated above all else, it was being ignored. “I’m sorry, it’s been…a very interesting day,” he finally settled for. He fiddled with the pipe in his hands, letting the smell of the burned leaf help calm his nerves.
Thorin nodded, but he was still watching Bilbo with that odd look. Almost as if he were concerned. “That is certainly understandable,” he said at last. “Gandalf explained how he had only spoken of our coming just this afternoon.”
“Late morning,” Bilbo corrected absently. “He, um. He does enjoy disturbing the peace.” A memory of Gandalf crossly telling Bilbo just what Frodo had called him made his lips turn up.
“Quite.” And then Thorin, amazingly enough, went silent. Bilbo had certainly thrown him for a loop, it seemed: a hobbit who did not balk immediately at the idea of adventure, who knew his answer of weapon upon asking. He was quite the oddball. No doubt Thorin had been expecting resistance and had found instead, perhaps, hospitality and comfort. Bilbo hoped he had.
Oh bother. Thorin was probably out here, looking for an answer, and Bilbo still didn’t have one to give him. But what could he say? What was he supposed to say to this dwarf, this man, who’d been his everything for several months, his leader, his friend, his worst enemy, his hopeful future, all wrapped up in one?
“Bilbo?”
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bilbo stammered. “I’ve…I’ve several things to weigh before I make my decision. It’s a difficult decision, you know, to go adventuring like that. You never know the types of dangers you’ll meet or the problems you’ll face or the most unexpected things that will happen-“ and he shut his mouth before he could say anything else.
Thorin was frowning at him now, and Bilbo cleared his throat. “I, um. Should have an answer to you before the night is through. Will that…will that suffice?” And any good points he had put in his column were being swiftly erased with every moment he stood here, babbling like a fool who appeared to fear adventure. If he did decide to go with them, it would be tallied and held against him, and Bilbo didn’t relish the idea of having to save Thorin’s life to gain that respect back. Mostly because he didn’t relish the thought of Thorin being so near to death.
“It will,” Thorin said, and Bilbo breathed a little easier. “Have you any spare leaf?”
“I do, yes,” Bilbo said, and he handed his pouch over. It gave his hands something to do besides nearly break his best pipe in half. It wasn’t the one that Thorin had carved that he’d carried back to the Shire with him. It had been the one token, besides the map, that he’d allowed himself to take. And the mithril shirt, but he hadn’t thought of that beyond anything besides safety. At least, he’d tried to.
Thorin was patting at his coat, though, with a frown, and handed the pouch back. “I seem to have misplaced my pipe.”
“Here, take mine,” Bilbo said without thinking, and froze. It had been a natural response, because Thorin had always, always lost his pipe, and Bilbo had begun sharing his back at Beorn’s house. Oh sweet Eru, what was he supposed to say-
Thorin gently took the pipe from his hands. Without looking away from Bilbo he pulled in a long draft of smoke and, ever so carefully, let it out in a near perfect smoke ring. Bilbo stared. Thorin didn’t blink.
Finally Bilbo found his voice. “That’s quite the smoke ring,” and his words only wavered a little.
“I was learning,” Thorin said, equally as quiet. “He was a very good teacher.”
There was no air left in Bilbo’s lungs, but what little thought he had finally remembered something from just a few minutes earlier. “You called me Bilbo,” he whispered.
Thorin nodded. “The name of a friend. A very dear friend.” He swallowed. “One I lost of my own accord.”
For a long moment, nothing further was said. The tendrils of smoke from the pipe drifted up into the air between them, and Bilbo only watched it from the corner of his eye. All of his attention was focused on Thorin, and it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. He’d given no indication all evening long, and yet-
And yet…
“How did you know?” Bilbo managed.
Thorin let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I couldn’t help myself. I knew you had retreated for solitude but I wanted to see you. And then I found you, here on your bench, speaking of doing things twice over.”
“I thought it was just me,” Bilbo said, his confession barely more than a breath. “I thought, I thought it was just me who’d woken up this morning where I hadn’t been last, that only I remembered everything, and seeing you, seeing the others and Fili and Kili, it was…” It had been so hard. To remember the friendships that were no longer there and would never be the same again.
But he could still have friends with them. Even if they didn’t fight the same battles again, even if they didn’t endure the same hardships together, they could still find a friendship with one another.
And he wasn’t alone. Thorin, his Thorin, was here, his Thorin remembered.
He stepped forward, taking the pipe from his hands and setting it on the bench beside them. “You didn’t lose me,” he said. “You never did. I was still your loyal friend even to the end of my days.”
Thorin winced. “I hope they stretched beyond that battle.”
“They did. 130 years and some; one of the longest lived hobbits of all time.” They had been lonely years before Frodo had come to live with him, though. “Even then, I was still yours.”
Only too late did he realize how that had to sound, but Thorin reached out to place his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, and Bilbo found himself all but swallowing his tongue. “And now?” he asked, sounding hesitant but almost hopeful.
Slowly, so slowly it was almost hard to move in a smooth fashion, he brought himself up until he was nearly sharing breaths with Thorin. He kept his gaze locked with Thorin’s until he was far too close to do so anymore, then, holding his breath, he placed his lips on Thorin’s. Just a light brush and nothing more, but it sent fireworks off through his nerves, and he felt as if he’d light up like the sun.
Thorin’s hand moved, startling him, but it was only to slide up to press gently at the curve of his jaw. Then there was the soft press of lips against his, so tenderly Bilbo could have believed that he imagined it, but then there was another, and another, and they traded for a few moments until he was nearly dizzy.
Thorin finally parted to rest his forehead on Bilbo’s, his breathing unsteady. “This is more than I deserve,” he murmured. “To find you here. Not just Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End, but my Bilbo Baggins who remembered me and our journey-“
“And who remembered the fact that you lose your pipe on a regular basis?” Bilbo asked, giving Thorin a quick grin. The answering smile he got for it was worth everything.
“And that fact, yes.” He took a deep breath in before pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, and for a moment, Bilbo was back in Esgaroth, sharing his pipe while Thorin shared his warmth. Suddenly unable to stand another moment without it, Bilbo wrapped his arms around the dwarf and held on as tightly as he’d always wished he could after Thorin had been laid to rest. Thorin was warm and alive, and Bilbo clung to him as if he’d disappear with the pipe smoke. It took not even a moment more for Thorin’s own hands to come up and hold onto Bilbo just as tightly, and he felt Thorin bury his face against Bilbo’s curls. Bilbo closed his eyes before they could leak his happiness.
He found his voice, once he was buried in the folds of Thorin’s coat. “Yes.”
“You do not have to-“
“I’m going with you. And that’s final.” He raised his head to meet Thorin’s gaze. “I lost you once, I won’t do it again.” Not when this was his Thorin. His Thorin.
Thorin measured his gaze for a long moment before finally nodding. “Good. For I would hate to abandon the dwarves within to remain here with you in the Shire.”
It was such a beautiful idea, so full of that futuristic hope that Bilbo shuddered in pleasure. Still, a thought had to be said. “Please don’t. They’ll run amok here in Hobbiton and I’ll be the one blamed-“
The sound of Thorin’s lighthearted laugh was everything Bilbo remembered it being, and there was the warm feeling in his chest, right on cue. What he would do, had done, to gain that laugh, it was a long list indeed. Anything to hear that sound again, the sound that he’d lost some eighty years ago.
When Thorin began to pull away, heading back towards the door, Bilbo tugged at his hand and brought him up sharply. “Are you needed urgently back inside?” he asked, when faced with Thorin’s frown. He glanced to the bench with the pipe on it, then back at the dwarf.
Thorin’s frown evened out. “They can manage without me,” he said.
It took little to no effort to bring Thorin back to the bench and the pipe. Bilbo leaned into him, warm again, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was back in Esgaroth on his first journey.
The pipe rested on his lips, and Bilbo closed his lips around it and pulled in the smoke without thought. When Thorin took the pipe back, he let it out into an evenly perfect smoke ring, opening his eyes to ensure that it had come out neatly. “I’ll keep practicing,” Thorin said, a smile in his voice.
“And I’ll help,” Bilbo replied. There was a dragon and there were orcs and goblins and spiders and elves between them and Erebor again, but he didn’t much care.
His hand found Thorin’s beside him on the bench, and they sat for some time, shared smoke drifting up into the night sky as numerous as their new chances.
Finis