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He’d noticed Thorin’s gloves right from the start, of course, but it still took Bilbo nearly a week on the road with the Company to realize that they never came off. Not from what he could tell.
Why was that, he wondered, trailing behind the Company as they trooped down to the river’s edge to bathe. Did Thorin suffer from some sort of compulsion? Maybe he was deathly afraid of having a sweaty sword-grip, or vain about disfigurement or damage to his hands. Or perhaps he bore some mortifying, ill-advised tattoos leftover from his youth, sprawled across his knuckles in disreputable fashion. If Dwalin was anything to judge by, already crouched in the water and scrubbing his tattooed scalp, that last guess might not be too far off.
Bilbo began shucking his own clothes in a hurry—best to get washed up quick, for they’d already set the evening’s stew to simmer over the fire, and he was famished. He nearly tripped over his trousers and brained himself on a rock, though, when he glanced up, gaze drawn to Thorin as it tended to be against his will (for though the dwarf was a bossy, arrogant arse, he was still quite becoming, with his noble features and long, wavy tresses and broad, broad shoulders), and realized that Thorin stood not ten feet away with his body bare, sluicing water over his furry chest and belly with his hands, still wearing his gloves. What in Eru’s name…?
Bilbo watched the play of water down Thorin’s arms and torso for what turned out to be quite a long moment, broken only by the pointed throat-clearing of Bofur beside him. “I, er…” Bilbo stammered, but the dwarf just laughed and clapped him on the back before ambling away down the bank.
When Bilbo glanced at Thorin again, he’d moved on to washing his hair, gloved fingers massaging the soap through his locks.
Bilbo opened his mouth, but thought better of it and sank into the water with his back turned. The smart thing to do was resist temptation—of any type.
After all, the Company had started to warm to his presence, but he knew that even genuine, delighted welcome could turn chilly in an instant on the heels of a poorly worded question. Generations-long feuds had sprouted in the Shire over less. And he doubted the dwarves’ idea of a shunning would be as passive-aggressive as “losing” a party invite in the mail or letting unkind half-truths make the rounds in the marketplace. Especially not from Dwalin, whose thunderous glower and hovering presence at Thorin’s side seemed quite permanent and forbidding, even when they were all hips-deep in a river and covered in soap bubbles.
Besides, folks were entitled to their oddities so long as they weren’t hurting anyone. Thorin’s quirk might be a little…stranger than most, but perhaps it was a blessing that of all the terrifying, revolting, or depraved whims a king could have and be indulged in, this King Under the Mountain embraced…a fondness for leather hand-wear. That was hardly a sign of danger lurking under the surface, right?
***
Okay, so maybe it was.
The thing with the trolls, that had been an eye-opener. Bilbo’s mind whirled as he sat on the ground in the clearing, still dripping with troll snot and aching from being dropped. Beyond the unpleasant truth that his burglarizing skills were less than adequate, and the even more unpleasant shock that up till now he hadn’t grasped how thoroughly this quest would acquaint him with his own mortality, Bilbo had been witness to the altogether bonkers truth behind Thorin’s leather-glove obsession—
Namely, that he wore the damned things because his hands could turn people to stone.
He’d only done it to one troll, once the Company had come storming into the clearing and noticed good ol’ William dangling Bilbo by an ankle. William’s distress as gray streaks had slithered up his body and locked him in place had distracted the other two trolls quite thoroughly, giving the Company time to slay the whole lot. Still, that stone-turned troll was plenty enough to have Bilbo parked on his arse by the tree line afterward, stuttering his way through half a dozen aborted sentence openers, when Gandalf finally deigned to show up. The wizard took one look at the scene—and half-stony William’s corpse in particular—before breaking into a triumphant smile. “Ah, well done, well done. I suppose this allayed your fears, did it not, Master Oakenshield?”
Thorin straightened to his full height, expression twisting dangerously. “Did you plan this, wizard? I will not abide by such treachery!”
Gandalf raised his hands hastily. “I assure you, I had no prior knowledge of these trolls. I am merely saying that it was a turn of good fortune that in the act of overcoming them, you were able to give your ability an, ah, ‘test run,’ shall we say, for enemies of a larger persuasion?”
Balin stepped forward, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Bilbo could take it no more.
“Stop, stop!” he demanded, his voice hitting a register best heard by hounds as he jolted to his feet. He waved his hands wildly at the whole cluster of dwarves and one wizard. “Will someone please tell me what in Yavanna’s name is going on?” He pointed an accusing finger at William the troll. “What was that?”
Gandalf and the assembled dwarves shared a round of awkward glances—save for Thorin, who was working his gloves back on now with a grim-mouthed, fierce-eyed focus, as though the dusty leather had done him some great personal wrong. Finally, Balin was the one to clear his throat and begin.
“Thorin has a bit of an…unusual affliction, one might say.”
“Hmm, yes, one might,” Bilbo shot back. “‘Unusual,’ hah! As if he’s got an extra toe or an unsightly rash or something. Turning people to stone, that’s a fair sight more—” Bilbo faltered as something occurred to him. “Wait, wait, I don’t understand. Why did you lot bother to bring me, then, if you can just turn the dragon into a giant scaly rock? Surely you’re not that superstitious about having a fourteenth member of the Company.”
Balin sighed. “Truthfully, laddie, before today, we had no clue if Thorin’s curse would even work on something as large as Smaug. It could be too slow for an effective attack, or only work in small patches. Or Mahal forbid, the dragon could crush or burn him before he got within arm’s reach. It’s terribly risky.”
“Right, right. I suppose that makes sense. But how did this…erm…” Bilbo wiggled his hands vaguely. “…‘power’ come about in the first place?”
“Greed,” Thorin said bitterly, meeting Bilbo’s eyes at last. The intensity in his blue gaze made Bilbo’s breath catch. “It came from greed. A thrice-accursed lust for gold.”
“King Thror’s lust for it, to be specific,” Balin clarified. “A visiting sorcerer-dwarf had been caught casting black magic—a grave offense among our people. To be absolved of his crimes, he offered to grant the king his greatest wish, whatever that might be. And so, held tight under the thrall of gold-sickness, Thror made his wish known—that the true heir of Durin be gifted a miraculous touch, able to form that which is most precious to dwarf-kind.”
Thorin made a contemptuous sound, and Balin paused and cleared his throat before continuing.
“Thror was speaking of gold, of course. But he was not careful enough in his phrasing, and the wish became twisted, as wishes are wont to do. The spell worked not on him, as he expected, but on the next true heir of Durin—Thorin, who was as yet a babe in his mother’s belly, and was on the cusp of being born. When no gold-touch materialized for Thror, he raged at the sorcerer, declaring him a swindler and a liar. He had the sorcerer put to the sword. It wasn’t till hours later, when a newborn Thorin touched a blanket in his crib and his mother, Fris, found him curled up in a cocoon of stone, that the truth revealed itself, and by then it was too late. The sorcerer was dead, and there was no one to reverse the wish. And so everything Thorin touches becomes what dwarves value most: the very stone Mahal carved us from, the stone without which we would not have life.”
Horror swelled in Bilbo’s chest at the very thought of an existence like that. To spend an entire lifetime never touching another’s skin, never feeling as though other people would want him to touch them… It sent a spike of pain through his heart. The solemn faces of the rest of the Company reflected his own feelings on the matter.
Bilbo knew that he could never fully comprehend the scope of Thorin’s suffering; however, he could somewhat relate. For many years, he’d tried to hide the remnants of the adventurous faunt he’d been in his youth, tried to fit in and fake contentedness while wanderlust itched beneath his skin. And though he’d done his best, no one in the Shire had really, honestly been fooled. Even if they didn’t consciously realize it, deep down they knew he was putting on an act. And thus, a veneer of polite distance had always remained between him and his fellow hobbits, even after the deaths of his parents, when support and genuine kindness had been something he’d craved, something he had cried himself to sleep for missing so acutely. When his skin had ached for the touch of another person—not anything sordid or sexual, but just the warm, tangible weight of contact, of love and affection from another living being—there had been none on offer.
Some people worried for him and did their best to help, of course. His extended family, and the Gamgees, and even a few of the less scandalized folk with whom he shared no blood had reached out to help ease his grief, but kind words and fleeting hugs and fresh-baked goods could not fill the void left by an absence of genuine, lingering, affectionate touch. A kind of touch that Bilbo had not felt in many years now, and likely never would again.
“’Tis a heavy burden to bear, and one I would spare you if I could, Thorin,” Gandalf said, looking grave. But in the next moment his expression lightened, and he added loudly, “Being different does not always mean you must be alone with your peculiarity, though. Take Bilbo, for instance—he’s considered quite an odd duck among the Shirefolk, and will be even more so after this adventure of ours, I should think. It’s fortunate that he’s settled in so well with you all. It seems that sometimes, one must look beyond one’s own kind to find true happiness.”
Oh, sweet Eru. How had this conversation taken such a mortifying turn?
“Gandalf, may we speak privately?” Bilbo forced out through gritted teeth.
“Of course, of course, my dear fellow,” Gandalf said airily.
Bilbo marched to the tree line, drawing Gandalf out of earshot of the others. Once they’d passed beyond the branches, he spun toward the wizard and hissed, “I must say, I do not appreciate you exposing my personal business like that in front of the whole Company. You’re going to make them realize there’s something wrong with me, that my own kind don’t even want me around, and then they’re never going to trust me!”
“Nothing at all is wrong with you, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said, his tone turning quite serious—and oddly enough, perhaps a tad offended. “It’s no fault of your own that your fellow hobbits are so mired in their ideas of comfort and propriety that they cannot see what a wonderful soul you are. But take heart, for I think you will find much greater acceptance among your new companions, regardless of my words to them.” And then Gandalf winked, of all things. What on Arda…?
The branches rustled behind them, and a blushing Ori popped into view. “Sorry to interrupt, but Thorin and the rest are going to search the troll hoard. Did you want to come?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Gandalf turned back to Bilbo and said, “I must take my leave for a short while, my friend.” He set off back toward the troll clearing, and after a moment Bilbo followed in his wake, mind still spinning.
***
“How does it work, your power?” Bilbo asked later, past Rivendell and the Misty Mountains, as the Company sat around a small fire at the foot of the Carrock, doing their best to roast up a pair of rabbits Kili had shot. “It seems that it’s only your hands, not all over. But, I mean, how do the gloves stay…not rock?”
Thorin turned to meet Bilbo’s gaze, his warm breath ghosting against Bilbo’s cheek. He was sitting much closer to Bilbo than he had on any previous nights, near enough that his fur cloak brushed against Bilbo’s arm every time he shifted—which was often; he must be damned uncomfortable, after being knocked around in the goblin tunnels and bitten and rag-dolled by Azog’s warg. He held out one hand in front of Bilbo and made a fist. As he did, faint crumbles of dust filtered out from the gap between the glove and his wrist. “They’re lined with stone ground into powder, so that it forms a protective layer between the leather and my hand. My mother came up with the idea when I was but a pebble, and I have used it ever since.”
An awful thought occurred to Bilbo just then, and he blurted it out before he could stop himself. “If you can’t touch anyone else, does that mean you can’t touch yourself, either?” Bilbo, you insensitive dolt, he berated himself, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks. “T-that—that is to say, um, pardon my rudeness, I certainly didn’t—”
Thorin only cleared his throat and shifted again, though, before admitting in a low voice, “Yes.”
Silence hung between them for a moment, until Bilbo decided to break it with yet another question that his relatives would have been scandalized to know he dared voice. “How did you…?”
“—test it?” Thorin finished for him, with a raised brow. At Bilbo’s red-faced nod, he said, “I bared my hands and touched a lock of my hair. It turned to stone in an instant, so fast the curse almost spread to my scalp.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “It terrified my parents so much that my father made me swear never to try it again. And so I haven’t.”
He flexed his fingers with a frown, then started to withdraw his hand back under his cloak. Before he could, Bilbo reached out and snagged it. They both froze for a moment, before Bilbo’s brain kicked into action and he settled their clasped hands on his thigh. Thorin let out a shaky breath but chose not to pull away, and so they sat in the glow of the fire, fingers intertwined, until Dori plucked the rabbits off the spit and started parceling out the meat.
***
Bilbo had thought he and Thorin might be growing closer after that, and at Beorn’s Thorin could hardly be found out of reach, but just as quickly as he’d warmed up to Bilbo, the dwarf turned distant again once they passed into the gloomy, looming shadow of Mirkwood. Bilbo weathered the renewed distance with impatience and a rather bruised ego, but he couldn’t really blame Thorin for retreating—as the Company’s leader, Thorin was quite preoccupied with getting them through this nightmare of a forest in a timely manner and with all their body parts intact (and preferably without them starving). Still, he couldn’t help feeling it was more than that, as the Company made camp again and, for the third night running, Thorin settled his bedroll as far from Bilbo as possible.
The late hours were so eerily black and cold and claustrophobic in the forest that for long stretches Bilbo found himself unable to sleep, despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, and this night was no different.
Eventually, he gave up and went to sit with whoever was on watch. Bifur, as it turned out. When Bilbo, still wrapped up in his blanket, sank onto the log next to the dwarf, Bifur gave him a nod and an understanding thump on the shoulder. Clearly, Bilbo was not the only one having trouble sleeping in this accursed place, even with the small extra bit of security from the glow of their fire. He and Bifur sat in companionable silence for a long while, save for the rustles of movement and darting, luminous eyes in the brush beyond the path.
Bifur’s steady breathing and solid presence beside Bilbo were actually quite soothing, and in the wee hours when it was clear everybody else had fallen asleep, Bilbo began to speak. He might not be able to understand Bifur’s responses, but it was still nice to let his confusion and misgivings out instead of allowing them to fester in his gut.
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed—probably you have, you seem the observant type—but Thorin has been avoiding me, I think. We were getting along quite well after that whole mess in the mountains, so I don’t understand what changed.” He let out a tiny huff of a laugh. “If you have any guesses, I’d surely love to hear them, because right now all I can think is that he’s gotten to know me better and decided he doesn’t like me after all, and the kindness he showed before was just gratitude. Which is…quite a shame, really, because I thought it was going somewhere. I wanted it to go somewhere.”
Bifur hummed and patted his knee, murmuring something in ancient Khuzdul that, although incomprehensible, held a comforting tone.
“Thank you, Bifur,” Bilbo replied, and settled into silence again.
Hours must have passed by the time a gentle tap on the arm stirred him to full awareness. He’d dozed off without even realizing it and was sitting half-slumped against Bifur, his neck cricked at a truly miserable angle.
“Oy, Bilbo,” Bofur’s hushed voice said. “I’m kicking you out of your spot, my friend. You might as well get a little more real shut-eye before we’re off on our merry march again.”
Bilbo rubbed at his sore neck with clumsy hands and hummed acquiescence. He gathered up his blanket and stood to go, but before he could shuffle off through the maze of bodies and bedrolls to his old patch of ground, Bifur grabbed hold of his sleeve and tugged him to a stop. The dwarf sent some sharp hand gestures Bofur’s way, and the two cousins went back and forth for a few moments before Bofur turned to Bilbo.
“Ah, before you go? Bifur has a couple of things he wants me t’ tell you.”
“Oh! Of course, yes, I’d quite like to hear your thoughts.” Bilbo fervently hoped they wouldn’t consist of Bifur disinviting him from future stints on watch—perhaps Bilbo airing all his insecurities had been less welcome than it had seemed at the time.
Bifur’s hands danced in the firelight, creating a stream of iglishmêk that Bofur squinted at but seemed to mostly understand.
“What you said about Thorin earlier—you’re wrong,” Bofur relayed. “He does like you. You just hafta make the first move. And probably keep making it.”
Bilbo blinked in surprise. “Can I ask why? I mean, he’s a king. He’s far from the shy sort.”
“Aye, but it’s hard to trust that someone wants you when you’re used to nobody wanting you.” Bofur shot a concerned look at his cousin, but continued to translate. “So you hafta show him that you do want him. Thorin needs to know he’s not a whim that you’ll forget about as soon as the thrill’s worn off, or once you decide his condition is too much hassle.”
Bilbo’s gaze tracked up to where the axe in Bifur’s forehead reflected the firelight. “I’ll certainly take that under advisement. Thank you, Bifur.”
Bifur smiled and tipped his head in a nod. Bilbo bid him and Bofur goodnight—for what was left of it, anyway—and headed off, though not back to his original spot.
Show him you want him. You have to show him…
Bilbo crept through the tangle of sleeping dwarves until he reached Thorin’s bedroll. He sank down to the ground in front of the dwarf and huddled close. Thorin stiffened at the contact, eyes snapping open, and one hand reached for his sword, but Bilbo stopped him with a hastily whispered, “It’s just me! Bilbo!”
Thorin stilled but his body remained stiff. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he asked urgently.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Bilbo was beginning to think this had been a mistake. Thorin lay wide awake now, alert for danger, and how was he going to explain this without sounding foolish? ‘I was just hoping we could cuddle’? He cleared his throat and steeled his nerves, then said the first thing that sprang to mind. “I’m cold.”
Thorin raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re cold?” He glanced at Bilbo’s old spot—right beside what was left of the fire.
Well, it was too late to backtrack now. “Erm, yes. Yes, I am. I don’t suppose you could spare some heat?”
There was a long pause, and then Thorin said, “Of course, Master Baggins,” and unfastened his cloak and started tugging it off to offer it to Bilbo.
“No, no.” Bilbo held up his hand. “I meant—um…” There was no way to save this situation with words, and so he went with actions instead. Moving slowly so that Thorin could stop him if he truly wanted to, Bilbo shuffled forward and sank onto Thorin’s bedroll, directly in front of him. Bilbo rolled to put his back to Thorin, then burrowed under the blanket and cloak until their bodies were pressed flush, Thorin a line of solid warmth from nape to calves. Thorin’s hand hovered above his hip, awkwardly, as though the dwarf wasn’t sure what to do with it, and so Bilbo grasped it and pulled Thorin’s arm around his middle. He settled the gloved palm against his rib cage. The hand flexed for a moment, as if Thorin was considering pulling back, but then the fingers spread wide and flat and Thorin’s breath rushed out in a stream against Bilbo’s ear, fluttering his curls and sending a shiver down his spine.
The dwarf’s body finally started to relax against his. “There, that’s better,” Bilbo murmured, and let his eyes sink shut and a contended sigh slip out as sleep beckoned for him.
***
We have a plan, Bilbo reassured himself over and over as they stood at the mouth of the hidden door, staring into the blackness of the Lonely Mountain.
It’d been a battle to get this far, between the trolls and stone giants and goblins, the orcs and elves and men. Not to mention a whole nightmarish mess with the barrels in the river, and sneaking into Laketown. Thorin’s stone dust had washed out of his gloves, owing to the much-worse-than-usual drenching they’d received, and it’d been a race to yank the fabric off before it could turn to rock and trap his hands inside. Then there’d been the logistical issue of finding him new gloves—they’d bought a pair off of Bard in the end—and smashing up new stone to line the insides, all the while with Thorin holding his clenched fists away from everyone and everything, refusing to get too close in case he forgot himself and reached out.
Here they were at last, though, about to descend into the famed stronghold of Erebor, and Bilbo found himself both thrilled and terrified. The latter more than the former, of course. Still, he dredged up all of his courage and joined the line of dwarves queuing up to step inside. Not for the first time, he heaved a mental sigh of relief that they’d scrapped the “burgle the Arkenstone” plan and decided to go with “Thorin touches the dragon” instead.
***
The fight against Smaug would forever be one of the top three most terrifying events of Bilbo’s life, and that was saying a lot.
They found the great monster asleep in the treasure hall and targeted his eyes first, stabbing at his one uncovered lid in a bid to blind him. It was partially successful, and while Smaug tossed his head about, snarling in rage and shedding blood all over the mounds of gold that roiled under his movements, they swarmed in close with sturdy chains.
“Now!” Thorin shouted, and in a synchronized burst of action, the dwarves converged on Smaug’s front feet. They looped the chains around his ankles, then anchored the ends to the nearest pillars. The entire hall shuddered as Smaug thrashed, and his wings sent a wave of wind through the hall strong enough to rip half the dwarves off their feet.
“Thieves! Rats! I will crush you! I will burn you all!” Smaug bellowed, and with a great heave, he snapped one of the chains binding his legs and swiped at the nearest dwarves. Nori, Gloin, and Bombur tumbled across the gold again, then scattered quickly to dodge the blast of fire that followed.
While Smaug was preoccupied, Thorin re-sheathed his sword and ripped off his gloves.
He raced across the treasure hall on Smaug’s blind side, past Dwalin and Bifur stabbing at Smaug’s flank and Bilbo himself throwing any large gems he could find to keep the dragon distracted. Panting, Thorin lunged forward and wrapped both hands around the beast’s tail. He must have seemed like a mere nuisance to Smaug, who was busy snapping spear-like teeth at Balin and Ori in between attempts to roast Bilbo—a nuisance, that is, until a grayness began to creep up the dragon’s scales, spidering out in a slow but steady advancement. With a pained roar and a whip of his tail, Smaug swatted Thorin aside. The dwarf thumped down onto a pile of gold and lay still amid a sea of sliding coins.
No, Bilbo thought. No no no NO. He started to dash forward to Thorin’s side, his breath rasping harshly as his heart curdled in his chest. But Thorin was forcing himself up onto an elbow, and then onto his hands and knees, and lurching toward Smaug again.
At that moment Dori slammed his hammer down on Smaug’s tail, on the grayed scales—
Which crumbled like pulverised stone.
With an ear-splitting screech, Smaug contorted and squirmed, trying to see what had caused his sudden agony. No doubt his nerve endings had been set aflame in a way even a dragon couldn’t ignore.
Those moments of distraction were all Thorin needed. Issuing a guttural shout, he launched himself at Smaug’s neck, which was hovering low to the ground and craning sharply before him. From there he sprinted up the dragon’s great snout, boots skidding on the smooth surface, and slapped both hands onto the scales between Smaug’s eyes.
So close to the dragon’s brain, he forced the stone touch straight inward, and within moments Smaug let out an agonized screech and staggered. Then, at a speed that felt as if the world itself had slowed down, the dragon collapsed. The entire mountain shuddered when he landed, and Bilbo was thrown off his feet by the impact.
When he scrambled upright again and looked up, he gasped. The blood weeping from Smaug’s eye had solidified into stone, and the grayness had swept down the dragon’s entire head and neck. Smaug’s heaving chest slowed, and slowed more, and finally fell still.
A beat of silence hung in the air. Shock and relief bubbled up inside of Bilbo’s chest, the latter so strong it brought tears to his eyes. All around him, cheers and howls poured forth from the Company, their reactions so full of joy that he couldn’t help but think they hadn’t truly expected to win, and were all the more excited since they’d half planned on being dead by now.
Thorin clambered down from the top of Smaug’s snout and accepted his gloves from Ori, who’d raced to fetch them upon realizing Smaug was no more. He scarcely had time to cover his hands before the Company engulfed him in a great wave of hugs and back-slaps and exuberant shouts.
At last they cleared away, though, and Bilbo was able to step forward and wrap his arms around Thorin and squeeze. “You did it,” he said against the sweat-damp, musky fabric of Thorin’s tunic.
“We did it. All of us,” Thorin countered.
The battered leather of the dwarf’s glove touched Bilbo’s chin, tilting his head up, and then Thorin leaned down and their mouths met in a warm press of lips. With a sigh, Bilbo curled his fingers into Thorin’s hair and tugged gently. Their tongues and breaths intertwined, bodies fusing as one, for several long moments—until the hollers and whistles of the Company finally registered, and they broke apart, panting and grinning fit to outshine the sun.
“I never thought I’d live to see this day,” Balin confessed, teary-eyed, and Bilbo wasn’t sure whether he meant the dead dragon or Thorin kissing someone, but regardless, it was a very good day indeed.
His emotional high didn’t last for long, however. “We should bring the others from Laketown,” Bombur piped up, and Bilbo’s mind flashed to Fili and Kili and Bofur and Oin, who would surely be disappointed they’d missed seeing the dragon slain. Worry at the state of Kili’s leg filled his thoughts—what if they’d come all this way, fought through so many hardships and indignities, only to lose one of their number after they’d achieved their goal? A tragedy, that would be.
“Aye, let’s go fetch ’em,” Dwalin said, shouldering his axe. “We won our mountain back, but now we’ve got to keep it.”
Far easier said than done.
***
After the Battle of Five Armies, wherein Laketown was destroyed, Azog met his death on Thorin’s blade, and absolutely nobody was driven gold-mad—because as it turned out, a Thorin who’d lived his entire life hating the stuff for the pall it had cast over his existence was hardly prone to his grandfather’s mental illness—the world seemed like a brighter place. It would have been even more so if Thorin weren’t laid up in a sickbed, his torso and foot plastered in bandages, his nephews restless and loud from their own beds in the neighboring tent.
Bilbo supposed he couldn’t really begrudge them their enthusiasm, but boy, did he ever want to. He clutched tighter to Thorin’s hand, the leather battle-worn and bloodstained under his fingers, and wished for a more comfortable place to sleep than the stool beside Thorin’s bed.
A wish that was soon to be granted, it seemed, for Thorin had awoken and was now curling his fingers, eyes inching open to show stormy blue.
“Oh, thank the gods,” Bilbo choked out, tightening his grip again. “You’re awake.”
“Fili and Kili?” Thorin asked, his brow furrowing.
“They’re both on the mend. No major permanent damage,” Bilbo promised.
“And the rest of the Company?”
“The same. A few broken bones, some gashes, but everyone made it through. Balin and your cousin Dain are handling the logistics and matters of diplomacy.”
Thorin sighed, sinking deeper into the bed. “Then I may rest easy, for now.” He dragged his gaze over Bilbo, surely taking note of his haggard appearance and the deep purpling bags under his eyes. “And so should you.”
“Mmm. Yes, that would be nice, I suppose.” Bilbo stretched on the stool, his spine letting out a series of satisfying cracks. “Maybe in a while, I’ll go find a cot to kip on.”
“Or…” Thorin looked up at him, a surprisingly shy smile tugging at the dwarf’s lips. “You could stay here. I am rather cold.”
Bilbo couldn’t help but smile back at that. “Cold, you say? I’d offer you my cloak, but as I don’t have one…” He stood and climbed carefully into the bed, settling along Thorin’s less injured side. “I hope this will suffice.”
“Hmm, it will indeed.” They clasped hands again, and Thorin pressed a quick kiss to the tip of Bilbo’s ear, breath stirring his curls. “I count my lucky stars that I ever met you, Master Burglar.”
“Do you suppose he planned this from the start? Gandalf, I mean.”
Thorin snorted, then winced at how it jostled his wounds. “I have no doubt. I cannot bring myself to be upset with his meddling, though, if the result is that I will have you by my side for the rest of my days.”
“Nor can I.” Bilbo nuzzled a bit closer and shut his eyes, and let Thorin’s breathing and the slow, recurring sweep of a thumb over his knuckles lure him to rest. They could worry about the monumental task of rebuilding a kingdom tomorrow; for tonight, he just wanted to revel in the knowledge that they had a long, long future together laid out before them, one with warmth and happiness and always, always a hand to hold.