Chapter Text
Bilbo huffed and tossed his hair back over his shoulder. None of the dwarves so much as looked up. Bilbo huffed more loudly and tossed his hair back again. Or at least, tried to. Curls tumbled everywhere and he pushed them out of his face with an aggravated sigh.
Long hair was all good and fine for dwarves, but honestly, it wasn’t meant to work on a hobbit. Even the lasses were more prone to keeping their hair tidy and up. Hair with curls and waves like hobbits had weren’t meant to be long!
He was sort of afraid to try to cut it again, though, given the reaction it had elicited the first time. Halfway to Erebor, and Bilbo had asked to borrow one of Nori’s small blades, given that he’d lost his scissors in the goblin tunnels. Once he had the blade in hand, though the dwarf had looked nine types of bewildered, he’d set about combing his hair as best he could with his fingers, wetting the whole mass down, and then pulling it straight to slice neatly.
The outcry he’d gotten had nearly made him stab himself. All of the dwarves had looked so terrified that Bilbo had quickly grasped the blade to try and protect himself from whatever it was they’d seen. Until he’d realized that they’d been staring at him.
“You can’t cut it,” Dori had said, sounding horrified at the very suggestion. Kili and Fili had both shuddered. “It’s only getting to be a proper length!”
“It’s too long,” Bilbo had explained. “Look, I just need a few inches off-“ and he’d gone to cut it again.
He was certain that Bombur had wailed and hidden his face in his hands. Even Thorin had looked fearful, slowly inching towards the hobbit as if he was a dangerous foe. “Give me the blade,” he’d said. “This tragedy need not happen, Bilbo.”
“Tragedy?” he’d sputtered, and Thorin had managed to reach for the blade, stealing it away. A huge sigh of relief had gone through the group, and Kili had come up and wrapped him in such a hug that Bilbo hadn’t been able to breathe for a bit. He’d been sniffling, too, as if Bilbo had been about to throw himself off of a cliff.
Honestly.
But they’d at least sat down and explained what it meant to dwarves, and Bilbo had sort of related. The hair on the hobbits' feet was much the same, though they certainly trimmed that back, too. But it was combed with reverence, their physical difference from other races that made them uniquely Yavanna’s children, so he sort of understood. Sort of.
He still thought they were bonkers, but he quietly kept his opinions to himself.
Except now his hair was out of control, and he had to do something about it. He was certain there was going to be talk in the Shire of how wild his hair was, and maybe, just maybe, the dwarves would understand it was a cultural thing for them to cut their hair. Maybe they wouldn’t see it as such a ‘tragedy’.
So he huffed again and started brushing his hair past his face. “Havin’ trouble, lad?” Dwalin asked dryly.
“Yes, I am. My hair’s so long I don’t know what to do about it,” Bilbo complained, grateful that someone had finally taken the bait. “It can’t keep on like this, it honestly can’t. No hobbit has their hair this long, not even the women.”
“Well, we could braid it for you,” Fili suggested, and Thorin leveled such a glare at his nephew that Fili hunched down into himself. “Or not,” he said meekly.
“I think braids would do you well,” Balin said, however, and he gave Thorin a sly glance that Bilbo didn’t understand in the slightest. Not that he was really paying attention to it, because braids?
“Oh no,” Bilbo said firmly, shaking his head and making his hair fly everywhere. He spit out a piece of his hair and scraped his tongue briefly to take off any stray hairs before continuing. “Absolutely not, no braids. I have grown out my hair for your sake, but you are now going to have to accept my cutting it for my sake.” Braids. Really?
“What’s wrong with braids?” Thorin said defensively.
Bilbo glared at him, trying to remember that he was being accompanied to the Shire by his friends as their apology for how they’d treated him – despite Bilbo telling them it wasn’t necessary, Thorin had a kingdom to run, but Thorin had been adamant – and that he’d been very careful in everything he’d said and done because he wanted to maintain his friendship, but Thorin was making that very difficult at the moment. “Young maidens have braids, when they’re trying to find a suitable partner,” Bilbo said. “Not even grown and married women have braids. I am not a young maiden and I am not looking for a suitable partner.” No, he’d found one. And then the whole Arkenstone and battle nonsense had happened, Thorin had almost died, and that had sort of curbed whatever tiny romance they’d had budding.
Thorin pinched his lips and took a few deep breaths. “In dwarven culture, we carry different braids depending on various accomplishments or how we feel. There is a Braid of War, for example. There is also a Braid of Intent, to court someone. The Braid of Age, when you come of age.”
“I don’t have a reason for any of those,” Bilbo explained as patiently as he could. “I just need my hair out of my face.”
“I think the Braid of Courage would fit nicely,” Ori suggested. “You could have two running down the sides of your head, and that would keep your hair out of your face.”
“And it’s typically done by-“
“Someone you trust,” Thorin interrupted Kili, whose grin was far too wide for Bilbo. “Thus it is a very high honor to braid someone’s hair.” He paused, then glanced at Bilbo, almost looking awkward. “I could, um. Braid your hair.”
Bilbo suddenly realized everyone was watching him, and that this was very much a bigger deal than Thorin was letting on. That or everyone wanted to be involved in the Saga of Bilbo and Thorin, part fifteen: Awkward Conversations and Too Long Hair.
“I still don’t really know that I should have braids,” Bilbo admitted. “It’s not really done in the Shire.”
All eyes immediately flew to Thorin. Thorin slowly turned a glare on them all, and each dwarf suddenly had something better to do.
After a moment, Thorin moved to his side by the campfire. He took Bilbo’s hand in his, almost determinedly, and Bilbo blinked. He’d forgotten how large Thorin’s hands were. He’d forgotten how nice those hands were. “It would truly be an honor,” Thorin said, pitching his voice low. “It is done traditionally by close kin or by those whom you are…friends with. I would be grateful if you would allow me the chance to do this.”
“You really don’t have to-“
“I want to.” Thorin cleared his throat. “Truly. It would mean a great deal to me if you would let me put braids in your hair.”
He’d be the laughing stock of the Shire, when they got there tomorrow. Well, he could always cut the braids off after the dwarves left, though he had a feeling he’d leave his hair long and keep the braids in. Something to remember them by. Something to remember Thorin by, and that decided him.
“Small ones,” he insisted, and ignored the leap his heart gave when Thorin began to smile. “Just, just around the ears. Just enough to get the hair out of my face.”
“Agreed,” Thorin promised. “Here, take a seat. Let me get my combs.”
Thus began an hour long work of braiding. Thorin was surprisingly patient, taking his time with each stray curl and tiny little knot he found, and soon Bilbo’s hair got tighter and tighter around his skull. A few admiring nods and comments were tossed his way, and Bilbo wished for the mirror Thorin had set deliberately out of his reach. Because of course he refused to let Bilbo see it until it was finished.
“Hold this,” Thorin instructed, and Bilbo caught the end of his braid, terrified to move lest he disturb Thorin’s hard work. He didn’t even dare to turn his head to see what was taking up Thorin’s attention.
The braid was tugged carefully out of his grasp, and Thorin began twisting the end in order to… “Is that a bead?” Bilbo asked, and the camp went strangely silent.
He couldn’t see Thorin’s face, but he sounded a little strangled. “To, um. To close off the braid.”
Bilbo frowned. “I thought you had ties for that.”
“We do.”
“But-“
“We also have beads. This was handier.”
“Can I see it, then?”
“No.”
Bilbo scowled and crossed his arms. “Honestly,” he muttered. Kili and Fili were both hovering nearby, eyes wide and looking as if they were biting their very lips from speaking. Bilbo glared at them both and they retreated somewhere else. As if he needed someone to tell him how foolish he looked.
Thorin finished up the other side in much the same fashion, then finally handed Bilbo the mirror. He looked…strangely, not as dreadful as he’d expected. It didn’t look like the braids the young maidens wore, at least; these looked exotic and different, small and winding from near his temple to around his ear and then hanging down by his shoulders. It fit his face, at least, nothing like the larger braids that the dwarves toted around in their beards.
“No, this is…this is all right,” he admitted. “I think they look fine like…what’s wrong?”
Because Thorin was staring at him as if he’d never seen Bilbo before. Bilbo slowly raised one eyebrow, then the other. “Yes?” he said, drawing the word out. “Thorin? Did it not come out the way you expected it to?”
Thorin seemed to shake himself out of his stupor, and then, to Bilbo’s complete and utter shock, his cheeks went a dusty red. “No, they’re fine, fine, they’re,” and he mumbled something else before heading back off towards the camp. The other dwarves grinned at him, and he snarled something at Dwalin when the dwarf approached with a smirk. Then Thorin was crashing off into the trees on his own, Dwalin snickering behind him.
Bilbo blinked. “What was that about?” he muttered. He turned back to the mirror and glanced at the braids. They were both even, at least. He ran his finger over one of them, wondering if that was truly his own hair he could feel, because his own hair had never felt that smooth before, not ever. It was…nice. And the beads looked familiar, as if he’d seen them before. Had they been Thorin’s? They were halfway decent, in his hair, the silver complementing his more golden locks.
Though he still didn’t understand what Thorin’s problem was. He’d been the one to put them in, after all.
“Dwarves,” he mumbled, then stood and went back to helping with supper.
It was a clear and sunny day when they entered the Shire. Lots of birds singing, children laughing, scents of fruity desserts in the air-
Not that Thorin really cared. No, all of his focus was on the hobbit in front of him with his little braids and his little nose and the tips of his little ears that had been revealed with the braids.
He was killing Thorin, making his fingers itch and his blood sing. And Bilbo didn’t have the foggiest clue.
Fili snickered, again, and Thorin quickly went working through the logistics of only returning with one heir. He’d probably have to dispose of Kili, too, which meant that Dain would keep Erebor, because Dis would kill Thorin, and she’d refuse to rule the mountain on principle. But so help him, if Fili made another sound about Thorin staring at Bilbo, he was going to murder his nephew.
It wasn’t Thorin’s fault. With the braids in his hair, Bilbo looked regal, his bearing that of one who belonged on a throne, more than he ever had before. It left his face clear and open, his smile when he saw the Shire again all the brighter. His curls caught in the wind but never covered his face, only dancing around like little wisps. The silver beads that Thorin had taken from his own braids caught the sunlight next to Bilbo’s neck. He looked…handsome. Handsome was a safe word.
Fine, he looked adorable and wretchedly delectable, and it was taking every inch of Thorin’s restraint to keep from running his fingers over Bilbo’s cheeks and ears, never mind doing other things. Which his nephews were enjoying quite a bit, if their amused snorts were anything to go by.
Even though he’d last visited the town in the early morning, when they’d departed, Thorin still remembered this hill, and the one after it, and then they were pouring into Hobbiton. Nothing seemed changed, though everything had changed. His mountain reclaimed, his people with a home once more, and his hobbit still looking so tantalizing in front of him.
Not his hobbit, though, not anymore. He’d ruined that, with the gold-sickness and the Arkenstone.
Yet Bilbo had acquiesced to staying by his side as he’d healed. Bilbo had agreed to let them accompany him all the way back to the Shire, though he’d been concerned about Thorin not being on the throne for a bit. Bilbo had let him braid his hair, and it was that one that was leaving his brain stammering and stuttering.
Last night, in the pale light from the fire, Bilbo had looked a vision: hair braided back by his ears, biting his lip as he examined himself in the mirror, Thorin’s beads hanging from the braid over his right ear that promised intent…
And Bilbo had wondered why he’d stared at him, completely transfixed. He was lucky he hadn’t pushed him into the ground and done…things. Bilbo’s longer hair already did things to him, and then to see it in braids, braids he’d been allowed to put there-
Mahal, Bilbo was going to be the death of him.
“Why are you slowin’ down?” Bofur asked, and Thorin finally turned to follow his gaze. It was Bilbo who was lagging, surprisingly enough, and he looked nervous.
“I told you, hobbits don’t wear braids. It would be akin to…to if you’d accidentally gotten your beard caught under an enemy’s axe and returned home, triumphant but odd at the same time.”
Thorin hadn’t thought of it that way. Thorin absolutely did not want Bilbo thinking that way. “Trust me,” he assured, somehow already by Bilbo’s side. “You don’t look odd. The braids are very becoming.” That was the greatest understatement if ever Thorin had heard one before.
Bilbo frowned. “Really?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” Fili said, while Kili’s shoulders shook. “He’s very becoming, don’t you think so, Uncle?”
If Thorin’s glare had been as powerful as a dragon’s breath, Fili would’ve been ash. “That was exactly what I just said,” Thorin growled.
“No, you said the braids were becoming,” Kili managed to get out without laughing. “There’s quite a difference, Uncle.”
Before Thorin could say anything, voices came on the wind, excited voices that were hurrying towards them. Bilbo brushed a few wind-blown strands away from his face – why was it so adorable, why – and watched him hurry to the hobbits currently racing towards them. All of them didn’t seem to give a single whit about Bilbo’s braids, too wrapped up in their drive to embrace him. They all but tackled him to the ground, laughing and hollering to see him again.
“You don’t do somethin’, cousin, and this whole trip’ll have been for nothin’,” Dwalin said under his breath. Thorin crossed his arms and refused to look at him. “And if you don’t do somethin’, chances are that someone else will. Because those braids you put on him do make him quite ‘becoming’.”
Thorin swung a heated glare towards Dwalin. Dwalin just waggled his eyebrows and rejoined the company. Muttering about conspiring dwarves and the rock-headedness of them all (and very pointedly ignoring his own rock-headedness), he watched as the hobbits stood Bilbo up straight and looked him over from head to toe. When they got to the braids, they blinked, and Thorin quickly hurried over to join them. So help him, if they said a single thing against Bilbo-
He hadn’t quite made it by the time they’d started speaking, but their voices carried well. “…interesting! Wherever did you get them?” one of the women spoke.
“I’ve never seen your hair so long before!” another one of them, a man, said. “Have you been letting it grow this whole time?”
“Yes, he has,” Thorin said quickly, overriding them. Bilbo glanced at him, looking absurdly grateful that he was there and speaking up for him, and it only furthered his resolve to do something for Bilbo. “We dwarves honor the length of our hair greatly, and as a friend to us, he agreed to keep his own hair long.”
One of the other women stared at him. “So he’s, what, an honorary dwarf or something?”
Bilbo began to reply, but Thorin found himself saying, “Yes,” before he’d truly thought about it. Bilbo froze. Thorin cleared his throat, forced to continue. “Yes, he is. He’s a dwarf-friend, the highest form of kinship we can offer to those who are not born as a blooded dwarf.”
“That’s quite an honor, then, I suppose,” the other male hobbit said. Bilbo still looked as if he’d been pole-axed. It still left him looking far too adorable. “Very nice braids, they are. Deft fingers, to get them through your curls, I’d imagine!”
“Thorin’s fingers are very adept,” Bilbo managed, nodding his heads towards Thorin.
“Oh yes, very,” the first woman said, grinning, and it reminded Thorin of Dwalin.
Bilbo sputtered. “At braiding! Braiding! Eglantine, honestly!”
“Right, leave him alone,” the second male hobbit said. He shoved the others on back down the road before turning to Thorin and Bilbo apologetically. “Sorry about them, you know families: meet the new romantic pair and simply have to poke their noses in. Pay no attention. The braids are lovely, Bilbo.” Then he was off and down the road after them.
“We’re not-“
“No, I mean, we were but-“
But he was already gone. Bilbo glared after him. “Really, Drogo?” he muttered. “You’re as bad as your intended.” He fiddled with the ends of the braids, fingers running over the beads, and Thorin seriously felt his own fingers twitch with the urge to pull Bilbo in.
Then his mind caught up to what Bilbo had protested to the hobbit, Drogo. “We were?” he asked quietly.
“We were what?”
“You said, ‘we were’. To your kin just now.”
Bilbo went scarlet. It was an interesting shade on him, one Thorin wasn’t quite certain he’d ever seen before. “Well, I, ah,” he stammered, and he nervously brushed his hair back and away from his face. Thorin found himself helpless to do anything except follow the movement, and he suddenly found his hand tracing his thoughts. Bilbo froze, Thorin’s hand unexpectedly next to his face. The hobbit didn’t move, and Thorin dared to run his fingers over the tightly wound braids.
“You seem to enjoy them,” Bilbo said, voice trembling a little. “The, ah, the braids.”
“They’re very becoming on you,” Thorin murmured. He forced his hands to stay steady. “Very, very becoming.”
Bilbo tilted his head to the side, just a little, and Thorin’s fingers tightened reflexively in Bilbo’s hair. Bilbo swallowed, and Thorin followed the movement with his eyes. Mahal, Bilbo was going to be the death of him.
It wouldn’t be a terrible way to go, but truly.
“We were…?” Thorin prompted again.
Bilbo slowly gazed up at him, still leaning into Thorin’s touch. “There was a. A you and me. Once. I didn’t, I didn’t think that after the Arkenstone business and you reclaiming Erebor that there would ever be one again. I thought I’d be a friend at best but.”
“But?” Thorin asked, hope making his heart pound against his ribcage.
“But then you…you braided my hair, and you keep looking at me, and tell me I’m not imagining things,” Bilbo finished in a rush. “Thorin, tell me.”
In response, Thorin caught Bilbo with both hands and hauled him in for a searing kiss. Bilbo’s mouth melted after the initial stillness of surprise, and Thorin let his lips roam over Bilbo’s again and again. The braids were still so soft beneath his palm, and Thorin wove his fingers into the longer, unbraided tresses, just because he could. Bilbo gave a whimpered moan, and Thorin, emboldened, tightened his grip in Bilbo’s hair. Bilbo sank a little against him, and this was it, this was Thorin dying, right in the middle of Hobbiton, Bilbo in his arms, Bilbo’s hot mouth and wet lips against his, Bilbo’s braids running against his skin. He ran the tip of his tongue over Bilbo’s bottom lip and felt how swollen it was already.
Sounds filtered in. Sounds of other beings around them, and Thorin suddenly remembered he was out in the middle of Hobbiton with his tongue halfway down Bilbo’s throat, and that image was not helping at all. He regretfully pulled himself away and found Bilbo looked dazed, eyes half-lidded as if he were waiting for something more. Thorin shifted uncomfortably with certain parts of him also waiting for something more, and glanced around.
Not just the company, then. A great many hobbits were watching them, and all of them were staring. Bilbo seemed to come back to his senses then as well, and his face went red. Thorin took his hand and glared at everyone around them.
The one hobbit, Eglantine, began fanning her face. “You, um, you’re welcome to Bag-End,” she managed, but she grinned at them both. “If you want.”
“Yes, actually, I think we do,” Bilbo said, face still scarlet, but he quickly dragged Thorin down through the streets to, presumably, Bag-End. His hand was tight in Thorin’s, a quick promise, and Thorin hurried to keep up. Because for some reason that only Mahal knew, he was being given a second chance with Bilbo and he refused to waste it now.
Especially if it meant he could get his hands on Bilbo’s braids and long hair again. In various manners.
“I want a Braid of Intent,” Bilbo said firmly when they got to Bag-End. “So you’ll have to do my braids again.”
Oh Mahal, he wasn’t certain he could survive his fingers in Bilbo’s hair again. “You already have one,” Thorin managed. “The one by your right ear. I hoped that-“
Bilbo stumbled over the threshold at his words. “You counted your chickens before they hatched,” he accused, but there was no heat in them. No, there was only heat in his gaze, and hope, hope that Thorin hadn’t seen in months.
“I did, yes,” Thorin admitted.
“No wonder your nephews were looking at me so oddly last night.” He caught Thorin by the front of his cloak and hauled him in. “Insufferable dwarf,” he said without truly meaning it, then pushed him back against the door and proceeded to descend upon his mouth. Which Thorin was very much all right with.
There were details to be worked out. Such as the braids that came later, the crown Thorin wanted to put on Bilbo’s very regal head, the throne waiting in Erebor that Thorin wanted him to sit in, if Bilbo would just come back with him. His original plan, to be forgiven, and he had been given his dream and more. He probably had bets to squash, knowing Nori and Bofur and Dwalin, and nephews to scowl at for all the teasing they’d subjected him to and the teasing they would continue to pour on him.
But for now, he had a hobbit in front of him with long, glorious hair, two braids that Thorin couldn’t stop playing with, and the promise of more in the direction of the bedroom.