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Thorin is very drunk.
Dwalin has always had a habit, as far as Balin and Dori have told him, of distracting Thorin for long enough that he never truly pays attention to what’s being placed in front of him. He just grabs and drinks and argues and, eventually, he is drunk.
Bilbo thinks it’s hilarious.
Thorin is not drunk in the way that people like Bilbo get drunk - Hobbits, that is. Though Hobbits are natural people of merriment, they are still small and compact. They handle their ale differently to that of Dwarven folk. When a Hobbit is drunk, there are jokes and dancing and inappropriate giggle-fits all around.
Generally, Dwarves take to drinking the way they take to most things: with an unbridled enthusiasm and excessive need to come out victorious. They are amicable, more so than they usually are, and they are friendly, but they are also more aggressive, less likely to understand the difference in strength it takes to embrace someone as opposed to wield, say, a battle axe.
When Thorin is intoxicated, however, that is an experience all it’s own.
There’s a small smile, constant on his face. It looks out of place to Bilbo, simply because Thorin is not one to smile unbidden; his smiles are rare, they are gifts, ones that Bilbo would readily spend the rest of his life earning. Now, though, he’s not going to complain. The world could do better with more cheer from the King Under the Mountain.
Thorin sits serenely at the head of the table with that smile and those bright eyes. Bilbo also notices, with an amused huff, that he is strangely talkative.
“Wait, Uncle, wait, I have to know - what do you think of Fili?” Kili ducks away from his brother as Fili goes to smack him, raucous sounds of joy bubbling out of his throat.
With a hum, Thorin says, “My eldest sister-son has served me well on this journey, and I am happy that he was able to keep both he and his brother alive where I could not always save them.”
“And Kili, Uncle?” Fili snickers, and settles behind one of Thorin’s shoulders, mug to his lips.
“I hope to rid him of his incessant need to mate with the she-elf. He should know that fighting with creatures significantly bigger than oneself and mating with them are two very different things.”
Fili chokes into his mug and Kili makes an affronted noise from the other side of the table beside Bofur. Dwalin roars with laughter, broad shoulders shaking with his labored breaths as he pounds his fists against the stone tabletop.
Grinning, Bilbo runs his fingers over the smooth stonework, marveling at the ornate detail carved into the edges. It’s covered in runes, dozens of them, in the shapes of things that Bilbo only vaguely recognizes because he’s seen them many times before, on Thorin’s and Fili’s and Kili’s beads.
And now in the bits of armor that Thorin has yet to take off from his diplomacy meetings with Bard, and the crown placed gingerly off to the side next to Thorin’s elbow, as if it had its own place at the table.
They’re in the royal dining hall, where all fourteen of them have taken their meals since the retaking of Erebor and the end of the battle. Even when Thorin and his sister-sons had been recovering, once Oin had decided they were allowed to wander, they would all meet here, and Bilbo thought that the three of them were better for it; to have had love and laughter to heal them as well.
Bilbo takes a tiny sip of his ale and continues smiling into the mug as Dwalin slaps a hand onto Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin jerks, not expecting the rough gesture, and some of his ale slops over the rim and onto the table.
“Seems that our great King has some words to share!” Dwalin forces around his laughter, and Bilbo truly wishes he had been paying attention to whatever had led to this stream of questioning instead of watching Bifur and Bofur whittle away at whatever new toys they’ve been inventing for the market. Turning towards the head of the table, Bilbo chuckles into his mug as he looks upon Thorin, flanked on either side by his nephews and Dwalin. Fili is smirking down at Thorin, golden hair spilling over his shoulder in a waterfall of waves that, now they are safe and sound in the mountain’s keep, is always shining and soft.
In fact, all of the Dwarves have taken extra special care to tend to their hair, on their heads and chins alike, now that they are stationary.
Dwalin slaps the tabletop again, hooting at whatever Thorin’s said in response, and Balin sidles away from his brother, smiling ruefully.
“That is no way to address our King, brother.”
“I’ll address him however I please. He may be my King, but he is my shield brother first.” Dwalin sniffs and takes a long pull from his mug, “Now tell me, O’ Great and Powerful King Under the Mountain, what say you on your opinion of Lord Elrond and his band of merry men?”
Balin scoffs, “Must you?”
Shrugging his massive shoulders, Dwalin turns to the King and waits.
Thorin seems to sit back and think, scratching at his mane of dark hair before deciding on an answer, “They were kind enough, though I won’t make it a habit of admitting that to Elves, of all creatures,” he shudders and strokes his beard in thought, the light glinting off the few rings he has on his fingers - far fewer than he had while under the spell of the gold sickness, these merely carrying mention of his bloodline and status - and then he adds, “King Thranduil, however. Now that is a creature I would like to dangle over the pits of Gundabad.”
The entire Company erupts into peals of hysterical laughter, and even Balin tries his best to suppress a fond grin.
“I have never seen him drunk before.” Bilbo says, either hand preoccupied with this or that pastry littered across the table, “Is he always like this? He’s strangely eloquent.”
Ori nods from his seat next to Bilbo, “Whenever Thorin has too much to drink,” he explains, “He becomes oddly… Honest. No, not honest, that’s not the word for it.” Ori purses his lips and cranes his neck around Bombur, “Nori, how would you describe Thorin drunk?”
“He never shuts up!” Nori shouts from Bombur’s other side, and the cook chuckles to himself, beard bouncing over his belly with his laughter.
Ori frowns, “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
Bilbo lets the thought sit, allows it to roll around in his mind as he watches Thorin answer question after question, seemingly unbothered by this spontaneous inquisition. Dwalin has, once again, replaced Thorin’s empty mug with a full one and is consulting with Fili and Kili on what to ask him next. Bilbo meets Kili’s eye and the boy’s face lights up and Bilbo thinks, Oh, Bilbo, you fool.
“Uncle,” Kili starts, settling an arm over Thorin’s shoulder and winking at Bilbo, “How do you feel about Shirefolk?”
Thorin snorts and brings his mug to his lips, draining it in one go, “Shirefolk are small, kindly children of the west that have no business venturing beyond the hills and safety of their smials.”
Bilbo bristles, but keeps quiet, watching the way Kili’s face falls at the response. He is about to make a snappy retort, perhaps mention how this “kindly child of the west” has saved his hide on multiple occasions, when Thorin looks his way and smiles, drunken flush high and heavy on his cheeks.
“But our dear Bilbo, he is not like the rest of the Shirelings. He is brave and cunning. He is a dragon-slayer if there ever was one, more so than King Bard of Laketown because he may have shot down the beast, but he has never laughed in the face of a dragon.
“I would wander the Shire for ages if it meant that I could find another even half the Hobbit you are, Bilbo.”
The Company falls silent and everyone looks over at their King, settled into his seat at the head of the table, crown forgotten at his side. There are equal parts fond and confused glances alternating between both the King and his burglar. Dwalin huffs knowingly.
“Perhaps,” Bilbo falters, scrambling for words while the rest of the Company grins at him deviously, “Perhaps it is time for our King to head off to bed.” Bilbo suggests, cheeks pink in embarrassment. He gets up from his place at the table and walks over to Thorin, picking up the crown along the way and placing it delicately where it belongs on Thorin’s head. He tugs on one of Thorin’s vambraces and Thorin allows himself to be led, stumbling to his feet with the help of Dwalin and Gloin. Fili and Kili guffaw at their expense all the while and Balin smiles indulgently.
Waving off any more offers of help, Bilbo rolls his eyes and leads Thorin away. He is significantly more steady on his feet than Bilbo expected him to be, considering how hard it was to get him out of his seat in the first place.
They have only just closed the door when Thorin rounds on him with a speed that Bilbo would definitely never attribute to the highly intoxicated and crowds him against the wall just outside of the dining hall.
Squeaking, Bilbo brings up a hand and lays it flat upon Thorin’s chest. He feels nothing through the armor, only the cold expanse of metal and the clink of chainmail. Thorin looms over him and presses him into the wall, and strength usually reserved for the battlefield is what keeps them there. Thorin lowers his head and presses his face into Bilbo’s hair and says, “I am rather fond of the way you pretend that you are not worth the affections of a King, Bilbo.”
Bilbo can feel Thorin’s hot breath on the side of his face, very close to the tips of his ears. He pushes back at Thorin and moves his head away. He hopes Thorin gets the hint.
“Be that as it may,” he whispers against Thorin’s jaw, “You are drunk.”
Thorin pulls his head away and looks down at Bilbo with curious, frightened eyes.
“Are you not… Amenable?” Thorin struggles to get the word out of his mouth, his voice thick in his throat in the way that inebriation sometimes does to people. Drunk as he is, his emotions are plain on his face. There is no scowl, no furrowed brow, no guarded eyes; everything is out there, everything is readable.
Bilbo wishes he was not so very sober.
“I am amenable, but you are drunk and you probably don’t really know what you’re saying and, should you not want this in the morning, I will not be responsible for the breakdown and destruction of everything I hold most dear so perhaps if you could stop looking at me like that, I’d be able to continue resisting you.”
A frown pulls at the corners of Thorin’s mouth as he takes a step back from Bilbo, hands closed into tights fists at his sides.
“Are you saying that you… Would be- amenable were I not… Intoxicated?”
Bilbo takes a deep breath and thinks, what could it hurt? And says, “Yes, Thorin, were you not very, very drunk.”
The smile that Thorin gives him, kind and soft and so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes, is worth all the small moments of petrified honesty, the ages of brave trepidation. It is worth every gem and vein of gold and mithril in the world. Bilbo remembers the chill of the wind and the bite of the glacier through his trousers at the top of that blasted hill, shivering so hard his teeth were chattering, blood welling through the gaps of his fingers as he tried to get Thorin to stop bleeding, to stop dying.
Bilbo remembers the faraway look in Thorin’s eyes and the way his voice rasped when he told him that the world would be a merry place indeed, if more people were like Bilbo and valued home above treasure, except he thinks that Thorin must be wrong because that smile has to be the most precious bit of treasure he’s ever laid his eyes upon and he would trade the Shire twelve times over to see it always, would never need the sun again if his smiles were always like this.
Perhaps if people merely re-evaluated what it was that treasure meant to them, then maybe Bilbo could live in a world where his Company would never have to suffer again.
“Then perhaps,” Thorin starts, smile still present as he unfurls his fingers and reaches out a hand towards Bilbo. Bilbo takes a step towards him and meets his hand halfway, holding tight, “Perhaps, my dear Burglar, you would allow me the honor of escorting you back to your chambers?” Thorin says this reverently, like it would truly be an honor for him to be allowed this chance. There’s that flush, still high on his cheekbones just beneath the dark edges where Thorin’s beard ends and the rest of his face begins.
“How about I escort you to your own rooms instead?”
Thorin frowns the smallest bit, “You think me incapable of finding my way?”
With a groan, Bilbo shakes his head at the stubbornness of Dwarves, “No, Thorin, I was simply saying that…” he gives in with a sigh, Bilbo, you bloody fool, “Oh, nevermind it. Let’s go.” And so he lets Thorin lead him along, down the long, dusty hall and neglected corridors to his chambers where he hopes to parse through his thoughts and figure out just how amenable Thorin might be once he’s sober.
###
When Bilbo wakes in the morning, swaddled in furs and pressed up against something warm, very warm, he doesn’t think about it for a moment. He simply lets himself sink into the heat, comforting and safe, until it shifts and he gasps and his eyes snap open and he thinks, Bilbo Baggins, you thrice damned fool!
Thorin is sitting up in the bed, furs in a puddle around his waist and eyes heavy lidded, head tilted down and away from the sun shining through the windows carved into the opposite wall of the room. When Bilbo had decided to stay in Erebor, he had made sure to choose a room that had windows, as many as he could get, that faced the rising sun. Now, as confused and embarrassed as he is, he doesn’t regret that decision in the slightest.
The silver in Thorin’s hair glows golden in the sunlight, like the thick veins that run through the whole of the mountain. His beard, shorn close to his jaw as he is wont to do, is the color of the sunflowers that grow just beyond the boundaries of Bilbo’s gardens back in the Shire. The sun highlights his face, the shadow of his nose softened by the morning light. The braids that usually frame his face are loose about his shoulders.
If Bilbo peeks around the curve of Thorin’s hip, he can see the King’s crown and beads and various other adornments scattered across the wooden tabletop of his nightstand. There’s one steel-toed boot just off to the side of the nightstand and what Bilbo thinks is one of Thorin’s vambraces beside it, but that is all he can see. He feels his face heat up at the thought of Thorin undressing in his chambers and takes careful stock of everything he’s wearing. Sleep trousers, night shirt; Thorin looks very much the same in his tunic.
The way Thorin squints against the rising sun makes Bilbo snort and, finally, Thorin looks down, as if he had just noticed that he was not alone.
“Good morning, Burglar,” he rasps, voice stuck in his throat. He seems unperturbed by the fact that he has just woken up in a bed that is not his own with a bed partner that he himself did not explicitly invite.
“Good morning.” Bilbo says around the lump in his throat, “How are you feeling?”
“Like Kili struck me in the head with the hilt of his blade.”
“Has this happened before?” Bilbo ventures cautiously, sitting up slowly and adjusting the fall of the furs in his lap.
“One or a dozen times,” he says, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “When he was small and I had been teaching the both of them the proper bearings of a swordsman.”
Bilbo hums in acknowledgement and clears his throat.
“Did Dwalin trick me into drinking again?”
Bilbo hums again, picking at the furs. He doesn’t look Thorin in the face but rather the junction of his neck and shoulder and there was truly no unappealing part of Thorin Oakenshield, was there?
“May I ask what I might’ve said to have you so speechless?”
Bilbo coughs and makes a nervous sound in the back of his throat, “Well, you didn’t say very much out of the ordinary, oddly enough, you were just extremely talkative, as I am sure you might know. I’m mostly concerned with how well you’re taking having ended up in my bed-”
“As I recall,” Thorin interrupts, voice rumbling in his chest and he moves his head to catch Bilbo’s eye. His eyes are the same icy blue as they always are, but they are warm and inviting, unguarded, and Bilbo marvels at the vulnerability the Dwarf King is showing him, down to nothing but his underclothes and in bed with a simple Hobbit, and sober, “I believe I could not find my way back to my own rooms and ended up returning.”
“Hmm, yes, yes, that is what happened, I was just hoping that you would remember it on your own, I didn’t want you making any decisions you might’ve regretted come the morning and-” Bilbo cuts himself off as Thorin places a hand carefully over his own and threads their fingers together, “And…” Bilbo watches the way their fingers fit together, the way the sun bleeds through the spaces and onto the furs, “And I wasn’t sure if you were amenable.” He finishes quietly, entranced by their hands.
“I am.” Thorin says and watches Bilbo’s eyes widen with a chuckle, “And are you amenable, Burglar?”
Bilbo nods, words having fled before they even had a chance to make it to his mouth. The way Thorin leans down then, his hair falling over his shoulder to curtain the both of them in a shroud of inky black and shimmering gold, makes Bilbo smile, so much brighter than the sun could ever dare.