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Chapter Text

Bilbo looked down at the acorn in his hand, rolling it around in his fingers almost absent-mindedly. Thorin had smiled at him, just then, clapping his shoulder with a surprising amount of gentleness, and for a second he had looked himself. The cloud of goldlust and malice had cleared for the briefest moment as Bilbo looked into his eyes, the deepest blue, and saw the real Thorin, his Thorin, back in front of him. It had nearly shattered him.

Now Bilbo looked at that acorn, a perfectly-crafted seed that held the potential for growth and beauty and comfort, and it seemed somehow very far away-- as far away as the true Thorin was now. A wave of frustration and desperation and nausea and even anger coursed over the hobbit and he turned to throw the acorn over the wall-- but stopped. It wasn’t the acorn that bothered him. It was the stone.

The Arkenstone, the King’s Jewel, lay in the pocket of Bilbo Baggins and not in the hand of the King. His King.

Fighting the wave of nausea back down, Bilbo tucked the acorn into his pocket, willing himself to take deep breaths. It wouldn’t do to be sick, not now, not when he had to stay strong and come up with a plan. He had to save Thorin, for his own sake, for Bilbo’s sake, for the sake of their family. All those dwarves Bilbo had come to love, and admire, and…

Thorin was the one Bilbo loved the most.

The first time Bilbo realized this, understandably, was after the trek down Carrock, when relief and adrenaline had flooded Bilbo’s nerves, and the grasping embrace of Thorin had set sparking fire to his limbs (and elsewhere). Some of the greatest pain Bilbo had felt on his unexpected journey was that of rejection, and though it was in his nature to please, it had puzzled him-- why did Thorin’s rejection matter so much more than any of the others'? Of course, it had to have been his regal air, his imposing demeanor-- all the dwarves and even Gandalf seemed to want to make Thorin happy, that must be why Bilbo ached to please him. But when he was gathered up into the warm and perfect arms of the King, Bilbo had realized that it was more.

That night, he had tossed and turned around in his blanket, listening to the snores of other Dwarves, as Oin fussed over Thorin one last time before turning in. Content with his ministrations, and shooed away by Thorin, the elder dwarf had turned in, and that was when Bilbo noticed Thorin’s shadow had moved-- closer.

“Master Baggins… if you are not on the edge of sleep, I would beg a word with you.” The whisper had been so quiet that Bilbo imagined for one second he had dreamed them-- it seemed the sort of thing Bilbo might dream. But the hobbit peeked one eye, then another, and saw the raven-haired dwarf standing over him. Thorin motioned for Bilbo to follow him, departing several paces into the woods.

Bilbo had scrambled up, hurriedly checking to see if anyone was watching them, but the company continued on in soft snores and sleepy grumbles. He padded across pine needles and soft earth, the light of the moon illuminating his way once he was far enough from the camp’s dwindling fire. Thorin had stopped about thirty paces out, leaning against a sparse tree with his eyes closed. Bilbo swallowed thickly, his heart picking up a few paces. Was Thorin not as pleased with him as he had thought? Was the earlier embrace a mistake, or even a show? Did he mean to cast Bilbo out, under cover of night, so the company couldn’t object?

“Master Baggins,” Thorin started, and Bilbo’s eyes shot up from where he had been silently panicking at the ground. He must have made a terrified expression, because Thorin’s eyes widened and he stepped forward. “Are you well, Bilbo? What is the matter?”

At the use of his given name, Bilbo reddened, as did Thorin. The both spoke--

“Nothing, Thorin, I’m more concerned for you--”

“Forgive my forwardness, I had meant to apologize--”

Both stopped, and Bilbo watched Thorin’s face carefully, waiting for the dwarf to continue. Thorin seemed to take a breath, then lowered his gaze. Clearing his throat, Thorin switched back to a formal tone, something Bilbo noted with acute disappointment.

“I wanted to beg your forgiveness, Master Baggins, not only for my continued harsh words during this journey, but for my forwardness earlier. I had not meant to grab you in front of the company as I did, it was merely my relief that you were well and my gratitude for your bravery and rescue. Please forgive my rough demeanor, unfit as it is for a king. I hope you’ll continue as our burglar, and allow me to...” Thorin trailed off. Bilbo looked at him, cocking his head to the side.

“Thorin,” he started gently, “No apologies needed. As I said before, I would have doubted me too. And you do not need to apologize for your forwardness, I rather liked it.” Bilbo stopped there, blushing. He looked down then, too, and because of this he did not see Thorin’s face as the dwarf stepped forward until it was within arm’s reach.

“Bilbo,” Thorin started again. “An apology is needed. I have behaved badly towards you, as a leader and as a dwarf. My only excuse is fear-- for the success of the quest, for the safety of the company, and for you.” Bilbo watched him quietly, heart still thumping in his chest, as the dwarf continued. “If you had been hurt…”

“But I wasn’t Thorin. And neither were you,” Bilbo added with a grin. Thorin’s features softened then, and Bilbo watched in quiet shock as Thorin’s hand reached out to cup the hobbit’s face, thumb brushing his cheek before dropping back down.

“I am glad you are here, Master Baggins.” And before Bilbo could think to reply, he was watching Thorin’s form retreat into the shadows of the trees. Leaning against a tree now himself, Bilbo worked to quiet his breathing. What affection he had seen in the dwarf’s face! Surely Bilbo was seeing things-- wishful thinking.

But the next morning, as they trekked over mountains, Thorin’s demeanor had changed. He no longer either avoided or scorned Bilbo. He was also careful not to get to close, but the fact that Thorin looked at him when he spoke rather than ignoring him seemed a radical, wonderful change, even if the dwarf’s expression when he looked at Bilbo was mostly unreadable. But once or twice, Bilbo caught the would-be king gazing at him with a look of wonder and even affection before quickly turning away.

Bilbo knew now that Thorin had grown to truly care for him, as he had for the dwarf. Bilbo loved each of his traveling companions dearly, but the raven-haired would-be king was his, claimed and claiming him. But so much of Thorin had changed.

Bilbo slipped the acorn back in his outer pocket, where it rested, separated only by fabric, from the Arkenstone, and his hand slid lower, to his abdomen. The nausea was still there, as it had been since entering the mountain. He had written it off as nerves, because he could not bear to think what other reason it might be, even as he recognized the signs. He couldn’t think of it now. There was already so much to lose.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing? You cannot go to war!” Bilbo exclaimed, his sense of panic growing under the already heavy discomfort in his stomach. Thorin had just sent away Bard and the Elf-King with a promise of war, after going back on his word. On his word! The word Bilbo had validated.

“This does not concern you.” The words, spoken gruffly, stung. After all this time, months in the company, weeks spent growing… closer to Thorin, to be shut out. The logical side of Bilbo knew that this comment referred to the decision making in war and politics, but the words hurt nonetheless. He tried again.

“Excuse me, but in case you haven't noticed, there is an army of Elves out there. Not to mention several hundred angry fishermen. We are, in fact, outnumbered,” he added, trying in vain to reason with the dwarf he loved and knew to be far away from logic.

“Not for much longer.” The answer came, without the explanation. Bilbo looked around at the other dwarves for help, but none returned his gaze. They were all focused on their king.

“What does that mean?” The question sounded a little too much like defeat to Bilbo’s ears, but he had to know.

Thorin did not look at him for several moments. “It means, Master Baggins, you should never underestimate Dwarves. We have reclaimed Erebor. Now,” he grinned, an awful look without humor, “we defend it.”

That was hours ago. Bilbo stood now on the wall, his rope cast over the side, about to climb down, looking out over the skeleton of Dale, where stillness masked what Bilbo knew to be an army of trained elves and desperate Men. The Arkenstone weighed in his jacket pocket, giving a physical sensation to the weight on his mind and body. His mind faced fear, confusion, worry, and loneliness; his body felt exhausted and both wrung-out and strangely full.

Bofur had said that no one could blame him for wishing he was elsewhere, but to Bilbo's surprise, he wasn't wishing to be at Bag-End. He was wishing he could stay with Thorin. What was it Gandalf had said? “The world is not here, in your books and maps. It is out there.” And Bilbo looked out there, at the uncertain night, but he knew his world was behind him-- in the mountain. He had to do something for his dwarves, to avoid this pointless war. He reached for the stone, but his hand went instead to the acorn in the other pocket. He thought back to the first night at Beorn’s…

***

It was several days before Bilbo could be alone with Thorin again.

They were in Beorn’s garden, and the company, including Gandalf, had settled down for the night. Bilbo had snuck out to take in the garden, at once civilized and familiar and wild and charmed. He was leaning against a large oak tree when he heard a twig snap behind him.

“Bilbo…” Thorin breathed out, the end of the word choking slightly out of shyness. Bilbo looked up then, feeling his blush spread to the pointed tips of his ears, and if he had ever been at a loss for words, it was now. The deep blue eyes of the dwarf seemed to reflect the very night sky, and though they seemed fathomless, they were indeed gentle and kind. Bilbo had never imagined he would see such careful compassion, let alone in the face of a rough, seasoned dwarf king. Bilbo noticed absently when Thorin’s hand came up to cup his cheek, the warmth of it pleasant despite the callouses, and then the world became the lips on his. Soft at first, then more present, more real, as Thorin-- or maybe it was Bilbo?-- deepened the kiss.

Bilbo reached out instinctively, curling his hands in Thorin’s dark hair, pulling the dwarf into him as his lips parted to let his tongue explore. Though summer had finally arrived, the night air seemed suddenly chilly, and the hobbit shivered as Thorin’s tongue explored his mouth, letting Bilbo revel in the taste of him. Too soon, the dwarf pulled back, his whispers now tickling Bilbo’s skin with their warm air and tangible desire.

“Forgive me, Bilbo, I--”

“Shhh, Thorin, please. Please .”

The last word dripped with a desperation that would later make Bilbo flush a dark red, but the effect it had on Thorin was as desired. The dwarf shrugged off the jacket he had thrown on over his undershirt before plucking Bilbo up and laying him gently on the ground so swiftly it made the hobbit faintly dizzy. Thorin paused there, looking at Bilbo solemnly, a question in his eyes. Bilbo looked back, momentarily serious, before a small smile slipped over his face, and he whispered “Thorin.”

It was all the permission either of them needed.

There was a tangle of hair and fingers and clothing, hands grasping at many things, lips sucking and tongues brushing over skin, breaths forming puffs of desire into the air, though none was lost. Thorin’s beard tickled Bilbo’s skin on the nape of his neck, over his solid stomach, and then lower, and Bilbo wasn’t sure he had ever felt anything as pleasurable as this, not in all the afternoon teas or armchair naps or pipeweed smokes. When he felt Thorin’s large and hale fingers hook his trousers to pull them down, Bilbo could do nothing but lift his hips up, scrunching his eyes shut in anticipation. Thorin’s breaths were steamy against his member, and the hobbit thought he heard his name, but sensible thought was lost when he felt the warm, wet mouth of Thorin Oakenshield engulf him.

Thorin’s own eyes slid shut as he tasted the hobbit’s musk, the curly golden hair tickling his nose as he slid down Bilbo’s member, greedily laving every inch of him with his tongue before licking his way back to the head. He could feel Bilbo’s hands pulling his hair and hear the hobbit’s breathy moans of pleasure, and the sound went straight to his own nether regions, where the hand that wasn’t supporting him clumsily palmed his own hardness. He slid his mouth back down to scent Bilbo again, relaxing his jaw to take all of him, and he then had to pull back when he heard the most obscene groan. Grinning at Bilbo, he whispered, “It would not do to wake the whole company, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo’s looked back at the dwarf looming over him, his cheeks reddened from lust as well as embarrassment, the glint in his eyes matching Thorin’s. “Perhaps you should come here and quiet me,” he whispered, “and I much prefer ‘Bilbo’.”

Thorin bowed his head in regal acquiescence before bringing himself up to lay claim to Bilbo’s mouth once more. Using one hand to steady himself, the dwarf used the other to rub Bilbo’s member, already slick with saliva and precum. Bilbo moaned again into Thorin’s mouth, hands fumbling to pull his lover’s shirt off.

Thorin pulled back, ripping his shirt off over his head, hair falling around his shoulders like a robe of black night, and Bilbo couldn't help but marvel in the sight. Sitting up, the hobbit divested himself of his shirt and made to pull his own trousers the rest of the way off when he glimpsed that Thorin had done the same. His mouth watered, and then his eyes, and he gazed back up at Thorin with a sudden jolt of panic until he saw that Thorin was pulling out a small jar of salve from the pocket of his trousers. Bilbo relaxed then, licking his lips as he looked upon Thorin once more, before speaking in a much more sultry tone than he intended. “How would you have me, Thorin?”

Thorin looked down at him with a hunger that seemed consuming and yet reverent, not dark but worshipful and even-- loving. “I wish to look upon your face, Bilbo, if you will allow this. If you would do me this honor, despite my sins.”

Bilbo reached up to cup Thorin’s cheek. “I would, Thorin, and gladly. I will follow your lead as long as you’ll let me.”

Thorin’s hand went up to cover Bilbo’s, his face turning to kiss his palm, before falling below Bilbo’s waist to dip into the jar of salve. Thorin’s mouth returned to Bilbo’s as his fingers sought Bilbo’s hole, and Bilbo gasped against his lips as they slowly traced languid circles around his opening. When one finger pushed gently in, Bilbo had to muffle his gasp with his hand, the other hand reaching down to grasp at the bare earth at his side. Mouth free, Thorin moved to kiss Bilbo’s jawline, neck, and throat, taking care to lightly nip at the sensitive skin. Bilbo’s eyes screwed shut as he felt Thorin’s thick finger work inside of him, rubbing in and out in a steady rhythm, and the hobbit’s muscles had only started to relax when a second finger was added.

Thorin could hardly contain his desire; his own member was straining with need, and he couldn’t help but buck gently against the hobbit’s hip with every lewd sound that Bilbo made. Maybe a little too soon, Thorin added a third finger, and Bilbo’s moan this time was unbearably lascivious. “Please, Thorin,” Bilbo choked out, and it was all Thorin could do to dip his fingers back in the salve, coat his engorged shaft in the thick oil, and line himself up at Bilbo’s entrance.

Entering Bilbo was like nothing the young dwarf king had ever known. Having had his fair share of dwarf maidens-- when his time permitted-- Thorin had thought himself a capable lover, possessed of self-knowledge, but more concerned with duty. Yet here, in the woods with this hobbit, Thorin found true pleasure. He pushed in, relishing every inch of Bilbo’s tight heat, dizzy with sensation, until he found himself sheathed to the hilt.

Bilbo’s eyes were clenched shut again, his knuckle suppressing the sounds he would otherwise be making, and he felt soft kisses against his cheeks and eyelids. He sought the lips with his own, enjoying a burning kiss with Thorin before nodding, eyes still shut. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice squeaking slightly. “You can move-- please--”

Thorin kissed him, lightly, once more, before pulling himself out, then pushing back in, dangerously slow. Bilbo adjusted, and with a few more agonizingly languid movements, found himself pushing into Thorin’s thrusts, working to meet him at full force. It was then that the perfect angle was hit, and Thorin could tell-- he positioned himself to meet the same spot, hands on either side of his lover, and Bilbo looked up then at the dwarf, eyes full of need. Hazy with desire, Thorin lowered himself to kiss Bilbo’s lips, his cheeks, his neck, and one hand went down to rub Bilbo’s shaft, leftover salve smoothing the way.

Each push brought him closer and closer to release, and as a tightness built in Thorin, he quickened his thrusts, pumping Bilbo member at the same time. The tightness of Bilbo encompassed him perfectly, hot and slippery, just enough friction to make every movement bring him closer.

Bilbo writhed, arms flailing, one hand grabbing for purchase at the dirt near his head, the other digging nails into Thorin’s back. The friction sent waves upon waves of heat through his nether regions, and every thrust hit that sweet spot, sending sparks through his entire body. His own tightness was growing, through his groin, into his belly, and he rocked his hips up into Thorin’s hand, and the heat was red, growing white, hot, and suddenly he was spasming, crying out, releasing thick ropes over his stomach, over Thorin’s hand, clenching so tight around Thorin’s member, bucking wildly--

Thorin came then, vision white as he thrust with abandon, releasing his seed into Bilbo with a roar. Bilbo was still clenching and releasing around him, and he milked every drop that he could out of the hobbit as his own rocking slowed. Bilbo was gasping for breath, whole body shuddering with over stimulation as Thorin pulled out of him and lowered himself down on his side, panting. Eventually, Bilbo’s breathing calmed, and he rolled over to face Thorin. The dwarf looked at him with such fondness that Bilbo wondered why he hadn’t seen it before.

“Bilbo,” Thorin breathed, and Bilbo shuddered again, this time with happiness. “I wish to do this again, with you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, Thorin,” Bilbo chuckled, leaning in to kiss the dwarf on his lips, which were pink and slightly swollen. Sighing contentedly, he let Thorin pull him closer. Here, despite the uncertainty of their lodgings and host, Bilbo felt safe, even…

“Loved.” The word was breathed out, falling softly into the golden curls on his head, and Bilbo shifted to look at its origin. The faintest smile pulled at Thorin’s features, and Bilbo laid his head back down, nestled against the dwarf. Before he closed his eyes, he spied an acorn, larger than those in the Shire, a few inches away from his head. He reached out to pick it up, curling his fingers around it as he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

The next several hours were a swirl of dread, guilt, fear, and adrenaline. Looking back, Bilbo would not remember the night he spent in the Men’s camp, nor even the start of the battle, as strongly as he did the exchange between his dwarves and the Elves and Men, when he revealed himself to be a traitor. That’s what he was now: a traitor. False, like Thorin had said in his mad whisperings to Bilbo as they prepared for war. The realization and betrayal on his lover’s face threatened to swallow him every time he remembered it. It had hurt even more than the rough treatment when Thorin tried to throw him over the wall.

His only saving grace was that, as hurt as they were as well, the other dwarves had protested this. He would remember, though he barely noticed at the time, that Kili and Fili made to drag Thorin back, that the others were frightened for him, that Bofur, his dear friend, ushered him away with the same gentleness he had used to try to shoo Bilbo before the battle started. They were betrayed, and perhaps could not forgive him, but they did not wish him dead. He carried that thought with him through the start of the battle, as he watched Men and Elves and Dwarves fighting needlessly, and then for their lives against the Orcs.

He carried that thought with him to the top of Ravenhill. Even if Thorin had finally chosen to fight, that did not mean he or any of the other dwarves had forgiven him. But Bilbo had to do what he could to save his dwarves, his family, his love. He had to warn them of the trap.

The crisp mid-November air turned to a bone-touching chill as he climbed over the top of the mountain. The misty fog lay heavy on the plateau, but he could hear Thorin’s voice sending Fili and Kili off to search for the host. He followed the voices, quickening his pace despite the shortness of his breath. “Thorin!”

“Bilbo,” Thorin turned, and Bilbo did not have time to notice the look in his eyes, absent of betrayal and full of only worry.

“You have to leave here, now,” the hobbit panted. “Azog has an army attacking from the North. He has the Watchtower surrounded.” He straightened himself, looking into the dwarf’s eyes, willing him to see reason beyond his vendetta against the Pale Orc. Thankfully, he did.

“With no way out,” Thorin muttered, realization dawning.

“We are so close. That orc scum is in there. I say we push on--”

“No,” Thorin interrupted Dwalin, eyes sliding away from Bilbo to size up the tower. “No. That's what he wants. He wants to draw us in. This is a trap.” Bilbo sighed in relief, and Thorin turned to Dwalin, giving orders. “Find Fili and Kili. Call them back.”

“Thorin, are you sure about this?”

“Do it. We'll live to fight another day.” With a nod to Bilbo, Thorin turned away with Dwalin. Bilbo nodded to himself, ready to retreat back to safety when they all heard a shout.

Bilbo’s brain had trouble comprehending the next few moments. Fili was there, at the top of the watchtower, suspended over a ledge by an enormous orc. There must have been more shouting, because Bilbo saw mouths moving, but he heard nothing save for the rushing of blood in his ears. The moments were long, every movement seen in too-clear detail, though later Bilbo would have a hard time recalling the order of events. Fili’s body swayed slowly, and something moved too quickly, striking the orc, and Fili fell. Bilbo could not see where he landed, and neither could he move.

By the time the world caught up to him, orcs were spilling onto the glassy ice around him. Thorin was gone, he could not see Fili or Kili, but Dwalin was there, fighting the stinking warriors with a rage that snapped Bilbo back into the world. When Dwalin killed an orc that was mere inches from ending Bilbo, he nodded in thanks, then realized his sword was drawn, and prepared to fight. His mind was numb, his entire body instinctively protecting what he now carried. He would not think of Fili and Kili. He could not bear to.

A knock on the head came, solving the problem of thought for a time.

***

Bilbo awoke with a shiver that shot a pain through the base of his skull and aches across most of his body. The light was wrong, the air was wrong. It was chilly, with a damp heat that was nothing like the biting winds he had just experienced. The icy rocks he must be lying on were impossibly soft, and he could not hear the clashing of swords and shields. The sky above him was beige. He had a blanket.

Bilbo made a move to sit up and instantly regretted it. The pain in his head spread, and it he gingerly lowered himself back onto what he now could identify as a cot inside of a tent. “What happened?” he asked himself, wincing his eyes shut.

“You were knocked out,” came a matter-of-fact reply from somewhere near his left side. “You’ve been asleep for two days. During which time the battle has ended, and the orcs were driven back, if not defeated.”

Turning his head slowly, Bilbo opened his eyes to see a tall grey figure resting against a table. Gandalf regarded him with a solemn look, puffing his pipe, though the fire had gone out, and then smiled at him. Despite himself, Bilbo felt comforted. He searched his friend’s face for ill news.

“What of the company? Is Thorin okay? Are Kili and Fili--” Bilbo stopped, choking on his words as the memory of Ravenhill returned to him. The sight of Fili’s body falling replayed, and Bilbo gasped. The orcs had come too, and he had not been able to see Thorin or Kili. He sat up now, totally unaware of the pain and dizziness it caused. “Gandalf, what happened? Is Fili--”

“Fili is alive, Bilbo,” Gandalf’s hand was raised as he stepped towards Bilbo’s cot, though this motion did not now comfort the hobbit. The wizard knelt at his bedside. “As are Kili and Thorin, and in fact, the entire company. I will not tell you that they are unharmed, for that would not be true. But for now, they are alive.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo started again, his heart beating in a way that felt constricting. “How are they? Fili-- he fell from so high, and I couldn’t see-- I thought the orc stabbed him-- and then I lost Kili and Thorin was gone, and then…” he trailed off, tears welling in his eyes as the memories replayed. How could Fili possibly be alive when he fell from so high? And if he was, how could he possibly be okay?

“You are right,” Gandalf murmured softly, placatingly. “Fili suffered a bad fall. He has broken many bones, and he does not yet wake. Kili sleeps also, and Thorin. Each was badly injured, and many of the rest of the company suffered many wounds. But the skill of the elves has helped them, and I am not without a few skills myself.” The wizard puffed out his chest, giving a gentle smile to Bilbo as he placed a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. “Do not fret, Bilbo. Your dwarves are in good hands now. And,” he added carefully, “it is best that you don’t worry overmuch in your condition.”

At the last comment, Bilbo looked up at his friend in surprise. “So it’s true,” he whispered, his mind temporarily away from his earlier worry. His hand slid to his belly, which was rounded despite months of lean provisions and much exercise. His clothes still fit him-- or, really, fit him again. “In all the excitement, I had not had time to think-- but, are you sure Gandalf?”

“Yes, Bilbo, I am sure. An elven healer confirmed it, though I daresay she seemed a bit surprised. It seems that this knowledge of hobbits was lost to the elves of the Woodland Realm. I have not heard of this in many long years myself. It seems, my dear Bilbo, that you are even more full of surprises that I had imagined.” Gandalf smiled down at the hobbit, who, finally, smiled back.

“I suspect Thorin does not know,” Gandalf spoke mildly, and Bilbo felt his stomach drop again.

“No,” Bilbo said shortly, his fears about the dwarves he loved so dearly returning. “And now he may never…”

“Dear Bilbo, do not think like that. I have every hope that Thorin will wake. And now,” he said rising, “it is time for you to rest. Drink this, it’s perfectly safe, and it will keep you warm and fill your belly and ease your mind. Drink!”

Bilbo took the decanter from Gandalf and sipped slowly, grateful for both the food and the direction. He was exhausted, and he felt he deserved to let someone else take charge of his life for a while.

The draught worked quickly, and soon Bilbo was nodding off on his cot, pain in his head forgotten, and both arms cradling his abdomen. It was bliss to sleep.

Chapter Text

The next few days were spent confined to his tent, visited only by Gandalf and the elven healers, under whose care Bilbo found himself feeling much better. The pain and knot on his head subsided, his aching limbs found rest, and if his worries over the fate of his dwarves were not lifted, they were at least not confirmed. Gandalf’s visits were short, as diplomatic matters kept him busy in other parts of the camp, but he brought what news he could, and Bilbo did not press for more. He did not say, but he felt he hadn’t the right.

In his many hours alone, Bilbo’s mind swung between worries of the future and guilt of the past. Despite the emotional pain, he often found that the past was more familiar-- he replayed it so many times in his head-- and thus he often stuck to that, reliving the shocked and hurt faces of his dwarven family when they learned of his betrayal. He relieved the anger, the pure rage and rejection of Thorin, and the fear when the dwarf king had made to throw him over the rampart. It was the dragon sickness, Bilbo knew, but now that his pregnancy was confirmed-- for that is what it was-- he could not help but experience the gut-wrenching fear that he had been too overwhelmed to feel at the time.

He did not blame Thorin. The words he had overheard spoken by Gandalf and Elrond in Rivendell, the malicious threats of the dragon Smaug during his taunts, came back to assure Bilbo that the gold was cursed. He knew that he had done the right thing, the only thing he could, by stealing the Arkenstone. He had put off the battle as long as he could, and perhaps the company would have died immediately otherwise. He had known then, too, that what he did was unforgivable. Even if Thorin could be relieved of his gold-madness, Bilbo was no longer their Burglar. He was the Thief.

Though it weighed on him, the guilt, Bilbo could not help to also feel bitter disappointment at the lack of visitors. He did not dare hope for forgiveness, but wished for understanding. Even anger would be welcome if he could see his dwarves healthy and hale, really know that they were well, that they were alive. But none came to see him.

On the fifth night, one week after the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo was finishing his supper of warm stew and hard bread when he remembered-- the ring. The clothes he had been found in were folded under the table, along with-- miraculously-- his other possessions that he had not time to retrieve from the mountain after his betrayal was made known. Setting down his empty bowl, the hobbit lifted himself gingerly to the edge of the cot, swinging his legs over the side. Rummaging through his clothes, he found his jacket, slipping it on to ward off the late November chill before fishing through his pockets.

His fingers first found the acorn, the one he’d picked up from Beorn’s garden after his and Thorin’s first lovemaking. He closed his hand around it, letting its natural texture sooth him. It was not the only seed he would grown now, he knew. He would keep it close.

The ring was in another pocket, cool and unsuspecting, and Bilbo poked his head out the front of his tent, surveying the camp. He knew he was not in Dale, but outside of it, on the outskirts of the battlefield. Most of the battlefield had been cleared and converted into a medical camp, where wounded Men, Elves, and Dwarves alike were tended by healers, who sensibly put aside grievances in order to share healing techniques. If any of his dwarves were still being tended to, they would be nearby.

Seeing that the coast was clear, Bilbo ducked back inside and slipped the ring on his finger, shuddering as the world around him shifted. His heart was in his throat as he padded softly around the camp, sneaking peeks into different tents, searching for a sign of his dwarves. To his surprise, he found Fili and Kili first.

The boys were in a tent near to the mountain, each flat on their backs on a cot. Bilbo barely stifled a gasp in time to notice Oin working at a table in the back of the tent. The older dwarf turned, and Bilbo slipped the rest of the way into the tent, flattening himself against the side of it as Oin walked past him, out into the camp. Sighing, Bilbo turned back to the boys.

He knew that Fili had fallen, but he was not prepared for the ghostly paleness of the young dwarf’s face. Though under several blankets, Bilbo could make out splints around both legs, and one arm was bound tightly across his chest. Gandalf had mentioned broken limbs and ribs, Bilbo remembered now, though the wizard had purposefully waited until the hobbit had taken some of the calming draught before revealing this. Now, clear headed, Bilbo could do little but sob, fingers coming up to press against his mouth in an effort to be quiet. He reached out to brush Fili’s dirty blond hair away from his face, letting his fingers trail down the dwarf’s cheek before drawing them back. It would not do to wake him or hurt him any further.

Bilbo tore his eyes away from Fili to look over his younger brother. Kili was a similar pallid shade, but beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his breathing was ragged. Bilbo stumbled closer, looking over his body for signs of injury. He found none that were obvious, but did not search too hard, unwilling to cause any more pain than he could help. He found one of Kili’s hands, the other tucked under the blanket, and stroked it softly. For a few seconds, nothing happened, and then Kili gasped for breath, an awful, pained sound as if he were drowning.

Bilbo jumped back, then scurried to the corner of the room as Oin barreled in, followed by Gloin and Dori. He sank to his knees as he watched his friends administer a draught to the young dwarf and fold back the blankets to reveal think bandages around his torso and left arm. The hobbit bit his knuckle and fought to stay calm enough to listen.

“The infection,” Oin muttered, motioning for Dori to hand him a tool. He cut back the bandages that wrapped around Kili’s left arm, and Bilbo could see that they were soaked with blood. “Hand me the salve, there’s a good lad, Kili, ye’ll be fine,” Oin softly went on as he changed the bandages on Kili’s arm, and then abdomen, where Bilbo could see a large gash. Oh Kili…

Several excruciating minutes passed, and finally the three older dwarves left the tent. Kili had been rebandaged, Fili had been checked over, and each was given a few spoonfuls of a broth. Bilbo stayed where he was a few minutes more, shaking with grief. His poor boys! And he could do nothing to comfort them, nothing to help them be well again. Fili’s body was broken, and Kili fought some illness that wracked his form with shudders. Bilbo could not even imagine them waking now.

Fighting to control his emotions, Bilbo dragged himself out of the tent. He turned a corner and came upon a cleared area, where Oin and Dori sat near a fire. The warm light illuminated their faces in the gathering darkness, and Bilbo paused to listen, leaning against a barrel.

“...elvish medicine. It has saved the lads thus far, against all hope.”

“Surely,” Dori responded to Oin, “it’s our luck that those two elves Kili was friendly with came upon them at Ravenhill. That she-elf saved his life, I wager, and the blond saved Fili from the blade of the orc. That’s what Gandalf told me,” he paused, lowering his voice. “I heard they saved Bilbo, too.”

Bilbo’s ears perked at his name, and he stood straighter, remembering the two elves that had chased them in their barrels. Kili had spoken of them in Lake-Town, especially the female elf. So that was how they had survived the onslaught. He would have to thank those elves someday, for saving his boys.

“Bilbo, eh?” Oin returned, a little too loudly due to his hearing. Dori shushed him, then nodded. “Have ye heard anything about him, then?

“No,” Dori shook his head, looking down and away, and Oin let it drop at that. Bilbo felt a familiar pinch at his chest. They still blamed him, of course. They could not forgive his actions.

Bilbo turned away, walking just to get away, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw him: raven hair, and an imposing figure, even supine on a cot. Thorin.

Bilbo hurried into the tent on which the dwarven king lay, hardly able to contain himself. Thorin was here, he was alive, at least for now. His face was swollen with many gashes, and one foot was propped up on several blankets. Bilbo could see the wrappings of bandages underneath the light shirt the dwarf wore, but his face looked peaceful. Bilbo wondered if he was merely asleep, but dared not move too close to find out.

How he wished he could reach out and touch Thorin, embrace his one-time lover, and know that Thorin would wake and smile up at him and forgive! But too much had happened, and if the other’s behavior was any indication, the King Under the Mountain would not forgive the Thief of Erebor, whatever love had laid between them. It was too much to wish for, even though Bilbo could not help but wish. Bilbo turned, leaving the tent without much hope. He would be back again the next night.

Chapter Text

“Have you given any thought to what you will do?”

Bilbo was sitting on his cot, struggling to close his pack, and took a calming breath as he thought about how to answer Gandalf. The wizard had been nudging him for this second week, when he could spare the time, and Bilbo was still not any closer to making a decision. Thankfully, Gandalf knew better than to push Bilbo to seek forgiveness and shelter with the dwarves, but December and all its chill lay upon them, and Bilbo no longer had any reason to stay in the healing camp. Neither could he begin the long trek back to the Shire, not in his condition-- and Bilbo could not bring himself to truly leave the dwarves behind anyway. He felt, despite all logic, that he must be near Thorin, for his-- their-- child’s sake.

Of course, Thorin still slept the sleep of the gravely injured, and Thorin did not know of the child, and even if he did, would he tolerate Bilbo to be near them? Bilbo did not know. But he could not in good conscience keep father from child. That was not the hobbit way. And some small part of Bilbo, untouched by guilt and grief, held out hope.

“I shall have to stay in Dale,” Bilbo said finally, not looking at Gandalf. “Perhaps I can find a small house, aid in managing the rations. I’m as good a cook as any hobbit,” he added with determination.

Gandalf sighed, patting Bilbo on the back. “Very well. I shall have a word with Bard. Perhaps he can be of some assistance. Although…” the wizard shot Bilbo a look that the hobbit could feel without actually seeing, “you might also find shelter in the mountain.”

“No.” Bilbo set his jaw, then, gathering his courage, met the wizened grey eyes of his friend. “I must do this my way, Gandalf. I must protect myself. None of the company has sought me out yet, and I imagine they’ll be far too busy to do so this winter. They’ll be rebuilding the mountain… those who can…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “That gives me time to plan my next move. Perhaps with time…”

The wizard was quiet, his hand resting still on Bilbo’s shoulder. He gave it a squeeze, then gathered himself up and exited the tent. Bilbo gazed after him, sadly. He knew that eventually, Gandalf would take his leave, as a wizard must surely have other duties of greater importance than biding the winter in Dale. But Bilbo would miss his even-headedness and keen eyes for difficult situations, as well as his comforting camaraderie. Although Bilbo had ceased to smoke his pipe when he discovered his situation, he quite enjoyed the peaceful moments with Gandalf, surveying the city and mountain together.

“Bilbo.”

The word spooked him, and the hobbit sprang to his feet, turning so quickly he lost his balance. There were hands on him then, large but gentle, pulling him up and placing him on his cot before letting go. Bilbo blinked back the dizziness that had been plaguing him these past few weeks, surely a symptom of pregnancy, and found warm brown eyes, full of concern, blinking back. It was Bofur.

A mix of emotions coursed over Bilbo, happiness and apprehension and confusion and shock, and if he had not been sitting he might have fainted. As it was, he barely managed to squeak out his friend’s name. “Bofur?”

“Bilbo, bless you, you’re alive!” And that’s how Bilbo found himself wrapped in the arms of an elated dwarf. Touched, relieved, and still a little alarmed, Bilbo sniffed back the tears welling up in his eyes and returned the hug. Too soon, Bofur was pulling back to examine him, chattering away as he patted the hobbit’s arms. “You’re alive! We all thought you gone, or run off, or lost, and Gandalf would only say that you had survived the battle, but he wouldn’t tell us where you were, or if you were hurt. But you’re here and you’re fine, and you’ve even gained your weight back! Bless you!” he exclaimed again, his face shining.

Bilbo smiled back at his friend, tears finally spilling over. Bofur, at least, did not hate him, did not blame him enough to ruin their reunion. Relief overwhelmed him, and he let himself be pulled back into an embrace. This was, on a small but important scale, what he had barely dared to hope for.

“I-- I’m happy you’re well, Bofur,” Bilbo choked out, voice wet. He closed his eyes and drew back. “And I am happy that you don’t hate me.”

“Hate you, Bilbo!” Bofur frowned then, and grew still and quiet. Alarmed, Bilbo held his breath. Perhaps in the excitement, Bofur had forgotten the betrayal. Perhaps he would leave, turn his back on Bilbo, warn the others not to come near--

“Bilbo,” Bofur was touching his face now, and the hobbit refocused. “‘Tis a wonder if you don’t hate us . We turned our backs on you when you tried only to save us. You were nearly killed because of us, and not just once!” Bofur’s eyes were dark now with regret and pain and honesty, and they searched Bilbo’s intently. “We did ye wrong, my friend. We were sick, and we couldn’t see how wrong we were. We all worried for you, once the battle ended and our heads cleared. We all want-- need-- to beg your forgiveness. I need to beg your forgiveness."

Bofur ended his speech by dropping to his knees, his hands sliding from Bilbo’s arms down to his hands. “I am sorry, Bilbo, for how we treated you. I’m sorry for not standing up for you. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

The hobbit gazed down at his friend in wonder, fighting back a new wave of tears. He grasped Bofur’s hands and nodded, giving him a shaky smile. The two friends sat quietly for a time then, the heaviness between them slowly lifting. Then, Bilbo cleared his throat.

“How is everyone? I hear Tho-- well,” he coughed, changing his mind. “I hear the boys are still asleep."

“Aye,” Bofur nodded solemnly. “They’re having a bad time of it. Oin says they’re healing, slowly, but he and the elves are doing their best, and nobody’s sure how they’ll be if-- when they wake,” he corrected himself quickly. Bilbo’s heart constricted to hear his friend’s force bravery, but didn’t comment on it. “The others are mostly well,” Bofur went on. “Bifur’s lost his axe, came out during the battle, and he can speak Westron again, though he sticks to Khuzdul out of habit. Dwalin suffered a few blows, but he’s been up and taking care of things for days. Balin injured his foot, but he’s content to give orders from a chair."

Bilbo smiled and relaxed, leaning against Bofur as he listened to the rest of the roll call. Everyone in the company suffered their fair share of nicks, but besides the Durins none were seriously injured. Bofur asked a few questions about Bilbo, how he had got on, how he was feeling now, and Bilbo answered in brief replies. He did not feel ready to share the news of his pregnancy, even to his closest friend in the company (save Thorin). He wanted to wait until the right time.

Inevitably, Bofur asked about Bilbo’s plans, and when Bilbo hesitated, Bofur invited him to the mountain. The dwarves were returning to Erebor, he said, and that included the Company, even the Durins, who would be moved carefully. Elvish medicine had done for them what it could, apparently, and now it was a waiting game. Bofur assured Bilbo that the whole Company would be overjoyed to see him, that none harbored him any ill wish, that he had a place in the mountain, especially for the coming winter.

Turning Bofur down was hard, but Bilbo begged off, fibbing to him that he had already agreed to stay in Dale over the winter, help in their food storage and kitchens, that he felt partially responsible to the Men for their misfortune. It was not exactly a lie, but Bilbo did not want to share the whole truth: that he was not ready to face the dwarves, who could not possibly totally forgive him, and he was not ready to face himself. The mountain, too, loomed over him, and everything it represented, Thorin, the quest, the destruction of Lake-Town, the battle, weighed too heavily for Bilbo to face alone. Most importantly, he could not stay in the mountain without Thorin, alive and well and ruling as was his right.

Bofur looked disappointed, but, just like the night in the goblin cave, and the night before the battle, showed his compassion and understanding. He politely let it drop, agreeing also not to make his whereabouts known to the company, but not before asking if Bilbo would allow him to visit if he could. Bilbo smiled, agreeing, and said Bofur could ask after him with Bard if he got a chance. Bilbo would not, however, let Bofur bring him some of the gold from the mountain. Bagginses were too proud for charity, and he had said that the Arkenstone fulfilled his payment. Too soon, Bofur stood, and Bilbo wished they had more time.

“Be well, Bilbo,” Bofur smiled at him, holding the hobbit’s hands in his once more. “I pray you’ll forgive us. No--” he shook his head when Bilbo made to argue. “It’s okay. You can’t forgive us yet. But if you stay, I promise, we will do anything to make it up to you. We owe you so much.” He smiled brightly, so brightly that Bilbo had to smile back, then turned to duck out of the tent. Bilbo sighed, his resolve to stay in Dale somehow strengthened by knowing Bofur approved.

Bilbo turned back to his pack where it had been forgotten on his cot, and gasped, shaking his head at the stubbornness of dwarves. Bofur had left his coin purse.

Chapter Text

True to his word, Gandalf arranged lodgings for Bilbo in Dale, on the outer edge of the city of Men. Bilbo was grateful to Bard for the man’s understanding of his situation (what of it he knew-- Bilbo’s form appearing still within the confines of a normal, pleasantly plump hobbit). Bard smoothed the way for him to assist in the management of the city’s food stores, a task he found soothing as it reminded him of one of his favorite chores at home: reorganizing his extensive pantries. Bilbo found his fellow workers to be kind, if not overly-friendly, and he much preferred it that way. If the menfolk regarded him as a curiosity, it did not result in unfavorable gossip, and any rumors did not seem to reach the Mountain. His privacy and refuge were sound.

His room, for that is what it was, was sparse, but shielded from the wind by the city wall, and so Bilbo was able to keep it warm with the fuel he purchased using his earnings and the money Bofur had kindly lent him. The winter air, for December had come to stay, was not as mild as it was in the Shire, and Bilbo was lucky to have a sturdy cot, left over from the healing camp, to keep him off the cold stone floor. In the evenings, Bilbo knitted-- using scraps he had purchased from the market-- and wrote letters back to the Shire. These he kept on his table, carefully folded, awaiting the day he could figure out how to send them. Perhaps when Gandalf returned, or once trade opened up. Surely the revival of Dale and Erebor would lead to a good postal route.

Before leaving, Gandalf had taken a few instructions from Bilbo concerning Bag End-- his favorite cousin, Drogo, and his new young wife, were to take over the estate during his absence, however long that may be. They had strict instructions NOT to allow certain cousins any liberty with his possessions, but were otherwise free to live in and manage the property as they saw fit. Drogo had a good head on his shoulders. Bilbo was certain everything would be fine.

Two weeks passed in the city of men, and Bilbo, though contented with his privacy from the people of Dale, formerly of Lake-Town, could not help but feel as if there was a barrier to his comfortable settling-down. He missed his armchair, and his books and his garden, his well-stocked pantry and cozy rugs and quilts and finely-made but simple comforts, like his candlesticks and West Farthing pottery. Sometimes, in his letters to his relations back in the Shire, he noted his homesickness, waxing poetic about the four farthings, the party tree, and his home under the hill. Now his home was under the mountain, but it did not yet feel like home.

No, that was because it wasn’t-- his home, or under the mountain. He slept under the shadow of the mountain, that was it. His homesickness for Hobbiton, though very real, was also a distraction from his other longing, for his friends in the company. Much as he did not like to admit it to himself (the only person he spoke to on most days), he was not as happy cut off from the dwarves as he had planned. After months surrounded by them, to suddenly have no companions was too quiet. He wondered at this, thinking of how quiet his life had been at Bag End. He had a large extended family, to be sure, but since the passing of his parents, he had lived alone. He saw others in the market (as he did now), or in the tavern or at parties, but his isolation in the Shire had not affected him as much as it did now.

Now, he had made connections, and their absence was acutely felt. Now, he had loved and been loved, had developed friendships, had looked out for others and seen the favor returned. His friends had become his family, against his expectations, and they were what he missed more than anything.

This is why, after two weeks in the city of men, Bilbo began to feel disheartened. It wasn’t that he had expected Bofur to visit him already-- he was sure that the reconstruction of Erebor was taking up his friend’s time-- but he cursed himself for not setting a date. Gandalf, tea, Wednesday. Bofur, supper, Sunday. Even a note would have been welcome. He ached for news of the Durins, of the cleaning and repairing of the halls, of the jokes and songs and simple fun of the company. But he could not bring himself to go.

***

On the four week anniversary of the Battle of Five Armies, as Bilbo had heard it called, the hobbit woke early, the winter sun still slumbering, though the dark was beginning to lift. He rolled over in his bed, wishing for another whole day and night to simply sleep. At nearly five months pregnant, Bilbo was finding himself more easily tired, requiring frequent breaks during his hours working in the food stores, and sometimes a nap before supper. It didn’t help that his appetite for food and water had increased, necessitating extra trips to the privy, even during the night.

This morning, however, sleep would not return. Grumbling to himself, he slipped out of bed, thankful that his hobbit feet could barely feel the chill of the floor that he was sure was there, and reached for his jacket, the fire in his makeshift hearth having burned too low during the long night. He shook it, glaring grumpily at the soot in the fireplace, and heard a -click- and a roll. Frowning, he bent over (no longer an easy task, though his clothes still fit) and reached down. The acorn he’d picked up at Beorn’s had fallen out of his pocket.

The sight of the seed made him unusually sad. He had meant to plant it in his garden in the Shire, not realizing even at the time that he would eventually wish to stay with the dwarves. Now, it was too cold to plant, and the dwarves’ affections for him had surely chilled as well. Bofur still had not come, and there was no news from the mountain. Bilbo wondered at his choice to stay, worried that he had made the wrong decision.

Of course, if he had decided to leave, he would still be on the road for some months, and he already felt too weary to do much besides his few easy tasks in the food stores through the days. The hand not holding the acorn found its way to his rounding stomach. No, he could not have traveled like this. It would have been far too dangerous.

Putting the acorn back in his pocket, Bilbo slid the hem of his undershirt up over his belly. His normal clothes were still not yet too tight, though a steady supply of food and his less-than-laborious occupation were not doing any harm to his figure. The roundness of his belly was different from that of a merely well-fed hobbit, and was noticeable especially due to his earlier drop in weight. His condition was most obvious when he laid on his cot, though Bilbo worried that it was also obvious to anyone who saw him. What worried him more, though, was that he had not yet felt the babe move. He knew as much about pregnancy as any hobbit, and hobbits tended to have experience in that area, as pregnancies and childbirth, though common, were family affairs, and excuses to celebrate. The quickening, the first movement, was commonly felt at five months. And yet Bilbo had felt nothing.

“I know you’re in there, little one,” Bilbo cooed softly, rubbing his roundness with both hands. “It’s okay if you’re sleepy. Yavanna knows I am too. But your papa wouldn’t mind a kick or two, just as soon as you’re able.” He smiled, dreaming of the day, hopefully soon, that he would feel the sensation.

Deep in thought, Bilbo hardly noticed that dawn had finally broken over the horizon, and the sky, though still grey with clouds, seemed just a little warmer. What Bilbo did notice was the loud knock that came at the door, followed by a voice that gave him to panic.

“Bilbo! I know you’re in there!” Bofur’s voice cried from the other side of the wooden door, sounding out of breath. “Wake up, Bilbo! The lads have woken up, and they’re asking for you!”

Chapter Text

Bilbo wrenched open the door and Bofur, in what would have been a comical reenactment of their first meeting, had either of them had the presence of mind to note it, nearly tumbled through the threshold with excitement. Bilbo stepped back out of the way, hands instinctively shielding his stomach, but Bofur righted himself, not noticing Bilbo’s odd posture.

“Bilbo, thank the maker, you’re awake. The lads-- they’ve woken up!” Bofur looked at his friend with infectious excitement, and it only took Bilbo a moment to process: Kili and Fili were both awake, and on the same day. They were alive! Bilbo felt a huge rush of relief that nearly knocked him on his feet, so he reached out to his friend, grabbing the taller dwarf by the arms.

“Are you serious? How are they? Are they well? What does Oin say?”

“They’re awake, Bilbo, and they want to see you,” Bofur smiled, and then his smile tinged to sadness. “They’re not completely recovered, but they can speak. They’ve already seen everyone else, except for--” he paused, “--except for Thorin, who still sleeps. But they want to see you. When can you come to the mountain? Can you come now?”

Bilbo’s head was dizzy, though he was sure it was due to his excitement. The boys were awake. Of course he must see them, of course he would do anything for them-- but to go to the mountain finally! The idea struck him, and his smile faded.

“Bilbo, what’s the matter? You must come!’ Bofur looked at him, now frowning as well. “No one blames you for the past, my friend, and Fili and Kili-- they’ve been so sick. They don’t understand why you’re not there now already.”

“I…” Bilbo shook his head. “I can’t-- go to the mountain. I’m not-- ready. I’m not ready. It’s not safe.” The hobbit’s breaths were coming quicker, his mind flooding with reasons not to go, even though most were ridiculous-- the gold, the dragon sickness, he betrayed his friends, what if they were angry still, and he had to help in the food stores…

“Of course it’s safe, Bilbo! No one wishes ye any ill. None of us, and we’ve missed you terribly.” Bofur grabbed one of his hands, holding it firmly, and his voice dropped low and serious. “I swear I will not let anyone bring ye harm.”

Bilbo shook his head again, mind still racing. But he had to go, Fili and Kili needed him… and he needed to see them. He gulped a few deep breaths, shook his head a third time, just to clear it, and then smiled at Bofur.

“Let me pack a few things.”

***

The trek up the mountain took longer than Bilbo remembered, and Bofur, still full of energy and excitement, did not notice how exhausted the walk made Bilbo, though he nicely carried the pack of food and other items Bilbo had gathered before they left. By the time they made it to the great gates, Bilbo was panting, and had to pause to rest before the entrance. Bofur touched his shoulder.

“Alright there, my friend?"

Bilbo nodded, then looked ahead. The gate was open, and the halls were visible. They looked completely changed. Bilbo had known that Dain left many soldiers to assist in the rebuilding of Erebor, but he had not imagined it would already look so different. Most of the rubble from the battle with Smaug had been cleared and repurposed beautifully-- dwarves were nothing if not handy with stone-- and he could see dwarrows wandering about between different areas of the great hall. Booths were set up around the perimeter, and Bilbo noticed that Men were here, also.

“Is this a market?” he asked, gazing about the place in wonder.

“Aye,” Bofur nodded, “we’ve reopened trade with Dale. They bring things from the elves-- food, mostly-- and trade with us for things we’ve got left over that they need to rebuild their city.”

Bilbo nodded quietly, thinking of the different things the Men of Lake-Town had lost and still needed. He wondered who had opened trade in Thorin’s absence.

He straightened, motioning to Bofur to lead the way, and looked at what he could as they circled around one edge of the market, his hand resting absently on his stomach. The mountain was so different now from what he remembered of months ago. His memories of the place were dark and damp, lit only by dragonfire and the reflection of maddening gold and-- and the stone. The Arkenstone glowed brightly in his mind; he wondered what had become of it. The mountain was now lit with torches blazing bright, and sunlight, for the doors and windows of the main gate were open, and the polished stone reflected it well.

Bilbo and Bofur made their way through the halls, Bofur leading confidently, while Bilbo was lost in thought. He spent the time watching two different memories-- the hurt on his friend’s faces when they learned that he had taken the stone, and the shock and care in their faces when Thorin threatened him. He refused to think about Thorin’s face, instead focusing on Fili and Kili’s. If they were asking for him, they could not despise him, surely. But they were young, he reflected, and saw so much of the world in black and white, especially Kili. Well, he decided, he would beg forgiveness, and they would give it to them, or not.

The halls became quieter, more subdued, and Bilbo recognized somehow that he had entered a residential area, away from the halls of work and smithing and trade and politics. Sooner than he expected, Bofur opened a door, and there they were.

There were several dwarves in the room, nearly all the company, and Oin was shooing them around, tutting over the two figures lying on the cots close to each other in the center of the room. All eyes turned to Bofur as he entered, and then to Bilbo.

The hobbit stepped forward, hesitantly, giving everyone a moment. What happened then was this: Bilbo was swarmed by the dwarves, but not in the fashion he had feared. Hands were on him, embracing him, patting his back, someone ruffling his hair, loud voices chorusing with cries of his name and gleeful nonsense. “Careful!” he cried, shielding his stomach, and the mass of dwarrows parted curiously. “Carefully, I’m-- still a little roughed up.” Bilbo pinkened and dropped his arms quickly, but then smiled. “And it is good to see you all, as well!”

There were laughs then, and excited talking, and smiles, and Bilbo couldn’t follow along with everything happening at once, but then he remembered. He started towards the beds, and Bifur and Ori stepped aside, and there were Fili and Kili.

“Oh, boys,” Bilbo choked out. They were propped up on pillows, and both had tired eyes and weary faces, but their color was better and they smiled at the sight of him. He stepped forward, in between their beds, for a better look.

“Bilbo!” Kili exclaimed, lifting himself slightly off the bed before grimacing and laying back down. Fili did not move, but grinned, adding, “There you are. You’ve had the whole company worried. If we’d known what it took to bring you back, Kili and I would have woken up sooner.”

Bilbo smiled, and then to his complete and utter embarrassment, burst into tears. Damn the moods that came with childbearing! Attempting to save face, he lifted a finger, wagging it at both of them. “Have you two any idea,” he said wetly, “how much you’ve worried all of us?” He smiled through his tears and reached out to touch both of their faces, the only parts of them he was sure he could touch without hurting them. Now was not the time to go over their full injuries, but he made a note to ask Oin later.

“Aye, well, we could say the same of you, laddie,” said a voice from the corner. Bilbo looked up and saw Balin sitting  on a chair, one foot propped up before him, and he recalled Bofur mentioning the older dwarf’s injury. Dwalin stood near him, a right-hand man as ever there was one. “Where have you been, Bilbo? Bofur would tell us nothing,” he stated, nodding at Bofur, who merely shrugged and winked at the hobbit from his place between Bifur and Bombur.

“Bofur is a good friend,” Bilbo started slowly, “as you all have been.” He glanced down at Fili and Kili, who listened with interest, then looked up at the rest of the group. Dori and Ori stood off to one side, and Gloin to another, Nori positioned in the back, looking over the others intently. “And I have done my best to return the favor, and to maintain your trust. But I know that I ruined that, with my actions before the battle. And I--” he stopped, starting to choke up again. “I understand if you can not forgive me. But I have come to beg forgiveness all the same. I only meant to save you, all of you, and I couldn’t.” He looked down at Fili and Kili, who looked back at him with such sadness in their eyes he thought his heart would break. “I couldn’t. And I’m sorry.”

The company was quiet for a moment, and even Kili seemed at a loss for words. Bilbo found that whatever courage had moved him to speak was gone, and he stared at the floor, willing it to let him melt into it.

“That’s enough, Bilbo.”

Bilbo looked up in surprise at Balin, whose face held nothing but kindness, and to the hobbit’s surprise, it was Dwalin who spoke next.

“Balin’s right, laddie. Ye need no forgiveness from us. We should be asking it of you.”

“We should have protected you,” Gloin spoke up, then, and several of the dwarves nodded.

“You were only trying to save us from a needless war, and Thorin from gold sickness,” Balin finished.

“I traded away the Arkenstone, your heritage!” Bilbo exclaimed, sure that the dwarves must be missing the point, or testing him, but they merely looked sad.

“Maybe, but you traded it for our lives, Bilbo. You acted as a true friend to us,” Balin explained. The old dwarf sighed, looking around the room. “Not one of us blames you, your actions are all long forgiven. The most pressing matter now is this: can you forgive us? Can you trust us enough to stay in the mountain? Will ye come home?”

Bilbo looked around the room, where the company stood, waiting, some with smiles, others looking solemn. He felt a tug on his arm, and looked down. Kili’s eyes were pleading. “Please Bilbo.”

Bilbo sighed in equal parts disbelief and reassurance, and smiled.

“Of course I can. Yes,” he nodded. “I’ll come home.”

Chapter Text

Eventually, Oin shooed everyone out of the room, reminding everyone that the two patients needed their rest (“But we’ve just had a rest, a long one!” Kili exclaimed, somewhat half-heartedly) and the company shuffled out of the room, murmurs of see-you-soon and rest-up-laddies trailing out the door. Bilbo followed Balin, who leaned heavily on a cane and held tightly onto Dwalin, into a nearby room where they could talk. Once settled, Balin propped up his foot and gave Bilbo an expectant look, while Dwalin bowed out to oversee some task.

“So,” Balin started, folding his hands on his lap. “Tell me where you’ve been.” Though the words were decisive, they held no tone of interrogation, and Bilbo saw no point in avoiding the process of catching-up, especially since he had questions himself. So Bilbo related how he had been staying and working in Dale, how he had not wished to be too far from the mountain (which was the truth), and how he had chosen to stay in the city of men because he felt guilt from his involvement in the destruction of Late-Town (which was a half-truth).

Bilbo assured Balin that he had been safe and warm and well-fed, and that he had meant to return to the mountain eventually. He related how he had spoken to Bofur and asked him for some time and privacy, and through all this, Balin nodded understandingly. Bilbo was thankful that the older dwarf did not press his feelings of guilt, or the situation with the stone, and suspected that the dwarves were as wrung-out with guilt and apologies as he was. Finally, Bilbo asked how the company had been.

“Tell ye the truth, laddie,” Balin sighed, “it’s been a struggle to regroup. Dain left us a hardy supply of dwarves to assist in the rebuilding of Erebor, and we’re surviving on trade with Dale, but what we sorely need is our leader.” He shook his head, and Bilbo’s heart constricted painfully. Everyone so far had spoken around Thorin’s illness, and the hobbit wished he could both avoid the subject and make everyone talk about it. Balin continued, “I myself have tried to lead in his stead, but I’m not as young as I once was.”

Bilbo chuckled at this. “I bet you’ve still got loads of energy in you,” he said fondly, but inside he worried. Thorin had been asleep for an awfully long time, and Bilbo knew as well as any that Thorin wasn’t only the leader of the company. He was the prince-- the king now-- of the dwarves of Erebor. Fili and Kili were not trained yet to rule, and anyway, they were still recovering as well. And the Valar only knew how long Thorin’s eyes would remain shut…

“Tell me about Fili and Kili,” Bilbo said then, changing the subject.

Balin looked grim. “Oin feared for a long time that they would not wake. Ye may not know-- Fili fell.” Bilbo swallowed hard at this and nodded, eyes downcast, trying not to recall the scene. “Well, he broke many bones, some that were difficult to set. His legs and hips took the brunt of the fall, and some ribs. He was knocked unconscious, and to ensure that the pain would not be too much, he was given some herbs-- some elvish medicine. But then he did not wake. Now, I see no cause for the elves to do this on purpose, you understand, but even they could not reason why they all continued to sleep.”

“So that’s why Kili, and-- and Thorin, too?”

Balin nodded. “As far as we could see. Kili was hurt too-- stabbed with a poison blade, catching his stomach and left arm. We were lucky his important organs were missed, but the poison entered his blood so quickly. It was by the healing of that she-elf, she and another elf interrupted the attack on Ravenhill in time to administer to each of them.” A pause, and then: “We are in debt to those elves.”

“And, how... was Thorin... hurt?”

“We’re not sure. He was brought back to us unconscious, too. But-- the pale orc was found nearby.” Balin paused again, and Bilbo let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Azog was finally dead, there would be no more of the vendetta against the orc. “He suffered sword wounds as well, and the blood loss, well…” he trailed off, noticing Bilbo’s pale face. “But he was brought back in time, Bilbo. The elves saved him.”

Bilbo nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He had tried so hard to keep his dwarves safe, and Thorin’s obsessions-- with gold, with the Arkenstone, with Azog-- had put so much at risk. And now Thorin might never wake.

“I’d… I’d like to see him, if I may.” Bilbo spoke softly, hesitantly, as if he wasn’t really sure. Balin nodded, settling back into the sofa, and made a few motions towards the door to the corridor.

“He’s in the next room past the lad’s room, where Oin can keep an eye on him.”

Bilbo nodded and got to his feet, heart beating in his chest. He felt a little dizzy at the notion of seeing Thorin, even if his former lover was still in a deep sleep. Giving Balin a shy wave, he slipped out the door and padded down the hall. He glanced into Fili and Kili’s room, where both were sound asleep, and Oin worked at a little table in the back, fiddling with some herbs and small vials. It looked like an old store of medicines, and Bilbo wondered whether they were still useful; then again, the dwarves and their knowledge of stone and metal, they could probably keep things well preserved. Bilbo thought as he patted his stomach that he should probably speak to Oin at some point concerning potential remedies for himself, but later.

He made his way to the next door, which was open slightly, and peered around the doorframe. The room was dimly lit, a few candles and lanterns giving off a soft, soothing glow, and Bilbo pushed the door further open and stepped in. There, in a bed against the wall, was Thorin. The candles flashed dancing shadows against his face, giving the illusion of movement, and yet for a moment Bilbo’s heart stopped, thinking that Thorin had died and been preserved, like Oin’s herbs, still and hard as stone forever.

“No,” he breathed, then a little louder, “no.” Thorin could not be dead. He was right here, and-- Bilbo moved closer-- he was breathing. Unthinking, Bilbo reached out, gently pushing some of his lover’s thick hair out of the way so he could drop a kiss to his forehead. Keeping his hand near Thorin’s head, he stroked his hair, eyes searching the dwarf’s face for signs of movement. Beyond the steady breathing, there were none. The hobbit’s inspection continued down Thorin’s body, but there were no longer any obvious wounds or bandages, as there had been those few nights in the healing tents, when Bilbo had snuck in and stared at Thorin as long as he could.

No, now, a passerby would likely have imagined that Thorin was merely sleeping, but Bilbo knew better. Thorin was not this rigid, this unmoving when he slept. During most of their journey, Thorin’s nights had been impossibly restless, his anxiety and obsession with the success of their quest keeping him on edge. Only a few times had Bilbo witnessed Thorin pass the night soundly, and even then he had not been so stiff, so hard, but relaxed and fluid and peaceful, draped over Bilbo, deceptively soft. Those nights-- two spent at Beorn’s homestead, a few win Lake-Town, before they were too close to the shadow of the mountain-- Bilbo had glimpsed what Thorin may have been like when he was younger, happier, more stable. Bilbo’s heart had simultaneously ached for Thorin’s weighty burdens, and swelled with the knowledge that part of the dwarf’s peace had come from him . It did more to affirm Bilbo’s love for Thorin, and the knowledge that it was returned, than even their tender lovemaking.

The memory of those nights, their passion and their brief peace, poured from Bilbo’s heart and into his eyes and he began to cry, leaning against the sturdy bed for support, burrowing his face into Thorin’s blanket-covered chest. Seeing the company again had been a balm for Bilbo’s loneliness and fear, but the emptiness left by Thorin’s illness was acutely felt now, in his too-quiet presence. Bilbo dug in his pocket for the acorn from their first night of lovemaking, pressing it into Thorin’s hand. He would not be able to plant it, not while Thorin was so far from him. Better for it to be kept safe alongside Bilbo’s other most treasured thing, and be a symbol of hope.

Finally, Bilbo took a shuddering breath, lifting his head from Thorin’s chest to messily wipe at his face. He was exhausted, and knew there was nothing he could do for his love right now. This obviously wasn’t helping. Bilbo turned away, hands finding his bump again out of habit and comfort, and he walked towards the door, wondering where he would spend the night.

“Bilbo?”

Chapter Text

“Bilbo?”

Bilbo paused, his stomach seeming to drop to the floor, which didn’t make sense because his hands were resting on it. He shook his head, ears twitching slightly, his longer-than-usual curls bouncing against his forehead. No, he was being silly. He was over-tired, wishful-thinking. He continued towards the door.

“Bilbo…”

The hobbit turned, and the room became very long, and the bed was very far away, but on it, Thorin was painstakingly pulling himself into a sitting position. Panic then won over Bilbo’s disbelief, and he snapped to his senses, hurrying over to the bed.
“Don’t sit up,” he cried, too loudly for there was rushing in his ears. He put out his hands to push Thorin back down onto the bed, make his rest, but stopped short, pulling away for fear of hurting the dwarf. It didn’t matter, because Thorin, with a grimace that Bilbo did not have the time to see, pulled him up into an embrace. “Oh!”

Somewhere far away he heard voices, concerned and urgent, but Bilbo was burrowed into Thorin’s chest, wrapped in his arms and his scent, and Thorin was holding him so tightly that nothing at all mattered in the slightest. Thorin, who at once seemed more solid and yet more soft than he had moments ago, was breathing raggedly, and Bilbo could hear his heart beating, or maybe his own, or maybe the rushing was still in his ears. There were more voices, and Thorin’s grip loosened, and Bilbo felt himself being helped down. The fluttering in his chest moved down to his belly, and that is when Bilbo’s world became very small, and very dark, and then empty.

***

“Whatever is the matter with him, he’ll be alright, lad, now will ye just sit back down!”

“He must have fainted for some reason, Oin, and you’ve just said that his stomach seems unnaturally firm. What if he is ill? And I have not been here to care for him, not since the battle, what if he was injured, how long--”

“You won’t help the lad any by working yourself up, Thorin, so sit, before I have Dwalin make you!”

That last voice must have been Balin’s, Bilbo thought with some humor, because few others in the company, Oin and Dwalin themselves excluded, would dare use that tone with their leader. There was an audible hrumpf that somehow also sounded like a growl, and then Bilbo was aware of heavy breathing, as if the owner of the lungs had just run several leagues. It sounded like Thorin. Thorin… had also just spoke. Thorin was awake. Bilbo opened his eyes, exhaling with relief, and turned his head.

“There ye are, Bilbo.” Balin was looking at him, a serious look on his face. “Ye gave us a fright there, lad.”

“Master Baggins,” Thorin’s deep voice boomed as the hobbit started sitting up (after taking stock and assuring himself that he felt well enough, as a hobbit can never be too careful). “Stop fussing over me, go see to Bilbo,” he grumbled, attempting to shoo away Oin.

“I’ll see to the lad once I’m done with you. Bilbo will wait his turn, aye?” returned the dwarves healer, sounding both exasperated and affectionate. Bilbo shook his head, keeping his eyes on Thorin. Awake-Thorin, sitting-up-Thorin, looking-at-him-strangely-Thorin. It was a marvelous sight.

“That won’t be necessary,” he started. “I’m fine.”

Satisfied that Thorin was well and truly awake, and did not seem to be ailing in any way, Oin turned around, joining Balin and Thorin in giving Bilbo worried, somewhat uncomfortable looks. Oin motioned for Thorin to stay seated and started towards the hobbit, placing a hand on his knee.

“We’re a little concerned about you, Bilbo,” Oin started slowly, and the hobbit noticed the use of his given name in place of the usual ‘lad’, making him sound all the more serious. “Now, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but ye fainted, and when we got ye up onto the cot, Dwalin-- he wandered off when I shooed everyone out-- he noted that ye seemed still a bit underfed. But I noticed your belly here,” a waving motion towards Bilbo’s stomach, “and it seems to be out growin’ the rest of you, and firmer than normal. Have you had enough to eat, Bilbo? Are you in any pain?”

Bilbo felt himself turning pinker during Oin’s entire speech, flushing a bright red towards the end. He had hoped, wished, really, as it seemed so far-fetched at the time, that he could tell Thorin first, alone. He shook his head at the last question, not trusting himself to speak, and without thinking covered his stomach with both his arms, more out of embarrassment than fear. At the added warmth, the flutter in his stomach returned, and he looked down in surprise, his mouth forming a perfect ’o’ before his voice could catch up.

“Bilbo? What is it? Are you hurt?” Thorin asked, hurriedly, moving to get up from his cot.

“No, I’m fine,” Bilbo put in, holding one hand up, and a smile dawned on his face, replacing the embarrassment and surprise. He moved both hands to rest over the center of his bump and glanced back down, took a deep breath, and looked back up, hoping idly that his smile would seem more reassuring than manic. “I am well. We’re both well,” he added, grinning at the hidden meaning in his words. He looked between Oin and Balin, trying to remain calm and instill confidence in his friends. “I wonder if I might have a moment alone with Thorin?”

The two older dwarves shared a look and glanced between Bilbo and their leader, and Oin helped Balin shuffle out of the room. Once the door was closed, Bilbo hopped off his cot, and stood in front of it, unsure whether to step forward, or break the news from where he was.

“Mast… Bilbo,” Thorin spoke softly, urgently. “Tell me what is wrong. Tell me that you are well, that whatever happened, we may help you through it. Oin-- they tell me I have been asleep for some weeks. If something has happened to you in that time, or in the battle...” The look on his face, so full of concern and affection, drew the hobbit closer, until Bilbo could rest his hands on Thorin’s knees.

“Thorin,” he squeaked, “there is something you need to know about hobbits. We are a… naturally abundant people. Growing things, producing crafts… reproducing… are our skills. Hobbits have large families, and everyone,” he laid into this word with emphasis, keeping Thorin’s gaze, “has a hand in creating children. What I mean is--” inhale-- “I’m pregnant.” Exhale.

A moment passed.

Thorin’s eyes remained locked with Bilbo’s, and confusion clouded them. The dwarf’s mouth opened slowly, then closed. Bilbo watched his lover swallow, and then open his mouth again. “Pregnant?”

Bilbo nodded.

“Male… hobbits… can become pregnant?” A nod. “And carry young?” A nod. “And give birth?” A nod, accompanied by a small wince. Bilbo was a bit worried about that, but then he gave Thorin a soft smile. Reaching towards his own shirt, he lifted the fabric that covered his stomach, revealing to Thorin the smooth roundness. He watched as Thorin’s eyes dropped to take in the sight, and then, very slowly, reached to take one of Thorin’s hands. Slowly still, as if not to spook the dwarf, he brought the hand to rest against his bump.

A soft, fluttery movement startled them both.

“It is the truth!” Thorin exclaimed, eyes widening as his hand pulled back, then moved forward. “May I?” At Bilbo’s grinning nod, Thorin settled both hands onto the hobbit’s stomach, letting them be covered by Bilbo’s own hands. A few more moments passed, and then another, feather-light flutter, right to the left of Bilbo’s navel. Thorin’s head shot up, and he looked at the hobbit in wonder. “It is the truth,” he whispered, dazed.

Bilbo nodded. “He recognizes his papa,” he whispered back, his voice catching on the last word. He watched as a grin spread over the dwarf’s face, and he returned it.

“I’m going to be a father,” Thorin’s voice was low. “We’re going to be fathers.” He left one hand on Bilbo’s belly, reaching the other one up to cup Bilbo’s face, so gently. Bilbo closed his eyes at the loving contact.

“Yes,” he agreed, feeling happier than he had in months. “We are.”

Chapter Text

By the time Oin and Balin had reentered the room, heard Bilbo’s news, been appraised of the evidence, become convinced, and promised to wait until the Company could gather for a group meal to share the development, Bilbo had become tired and hungry. It must be well past lunch time, he reflected silently, leaning against Thorin’s cot for support. He felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Thorin staring at him intently.

“What? I’m sorry, what?” Bilbo looked between his lover and the other dwarves, realized that he had missed something that had been said.
“I said, you look exhausted,” Balin started, and Oin nodded, added, “I’d like ye to get some rest, young lad. You’ve had a long day.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, licking his lips. “A nap would be marvelous. And perhaps a quick meal. I had packed a lunch in my sack, it’s somewhere around here…” he trailed off, looking about the floor. Balin reached out to him, the bag swaying in his hand. “Ah, there we go. Right.”

He turned to Thorin, suddenly feeling bashful. “I will… see you in the morning, then.”

Thorin nodded, a wistful look on his face, though his own eyes were drooping and his cheeks were pink. “Yes. You know where I am… if you need anything.”

Bilbo nodded and smiled, then followed Oin and Balin out the door. Dori was waiting outside for them; he was apparently one of the dwarves who had heard Bilbo’s exclamations when Thorin awoke, but had later been shooed away when Bilbo fainted. He smiled and bowed at the three of them, then turned to the hobbit. “Ah, Master Bilbo! We’ve set up a room for you, and provided you with a simple meal. Balin guessed you would be tired and hungry. If you’ll follow me?”

Bilbo nodded and followed along, waving a shy goodbye to the others. Dori took him further down the same corridor, stopping abruptly to turn to a door on the right. “Here we are, Master Bilbo,” Dori said, pushing the door open to reveal a decently-sized room with a bed, a bureau, and a table with a chair. The lamps were lit, filling the room with an ample amount of light, and as Bilbo crossed the rug-covered floor, he saw that there was food on the table: some sandwiches, broth, and an ale. He turned to Dori and bowed, thanking him as Dori did the same, and then Bilbo was left peacefully alone.

He set down his pack next to the table, pulling out the cloth full of biscuits, cheeses, and cured meats he had brought from his tiny home back in Dale. Better to eat the warm food now, and save the rest. Those would make an excellent snack later when he woke up, if he woke up in time for a late supper. He felt emotionally wrung-out, stretched thin, like “butter scraped over too much bread,” as an older relative used to say. He was bone-weary, as well, but he had to eat. He sat down and sighed contentedly at the food, taking his time, sipping very small amounts of the beer as he went. By the time he had finished, taken off his outer clothes and crawled into bed, he could barely keep his eyes open. He was in the mountain, his Durins were awake, and Thorin was accepting of his pregnancy. Anything else could wait.

***

Bilbo awoke to a peaceful quiet, so unlike the harried bustle of the rebuilding Dale that for a moment he thought he was back in his old bed in Bag End and stretched, quite like last April. The morning after the dwarves had turned his life upside down, and then left (according to his wishes), and he realized suddenly that he had found what he was missing and gave it up, potentially for good. The tranquil silence of that morning, the stillness, had been comforting because it was familiar, but not, he realized, because it was all he needed.

Today, like then, he opened his eyes with a dawning realization, coming to terms with the events of the day before, only this time, he’d made the right decision already. He could wake up slowly, set himself to rights, not rush off in search of adventure. He was living his adventure already. He smiled, patting his stomach as he rolled over and sat up, thinking of the adventures to come. Rebuilding Erebor. Meeting new dwarves, making a new home, reading new books. Parenting. Loving someone.

Bilbo’s heart skipped a beat. Thorin was awake; he hadn’t quite forgotten, but with the emotional turmoil from the day before, he hadn’t quite had time to think. Thorin had been pleased to see him, sure: for Thorin, it was still the time immediately after the battle. Thorin was a natural leader, a good one. He would want to make sure that his company was safe, even those who had wronged him. That was it. And then, the pregnancy, well, Bilbo understood the joy of impending parenthood. He was sure Thorin hadn’t had time to remember Bilbo’s transgressions. He paled, instantly too antsy to stay in bed, and made his way over to his desk table, where he had left yesterday’s packed lunch. He munched on a biscuit, hoping that a bit of food would make him feel better.

In a few moments, it did. Perhaps woken by Bilbo’s movements or the sudden addition of food to his stomach, the flutters in the hobbit’s stomach returned. That brought Bilbo out of his sour thoughts. This baby would prove Bilbo with the necessary reason and courage to do whatever he had to in order to make things right between him and Thorin. For his child, he could be brave, even if the anxiety and guilt had returned full force.

A knock came at the door, and a quiet “Bilbo?” and the hobbit shuffled over to Bofur out in the corridor. Of course, he smiled to himself, they’d send Bilbo’s closest friend. Bilbo bowed before Bofur could, a twinkle in his eye.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he smirked. Bofur laughed, clapping him on the back jovially, returning the gesture with flair.

“Bofur, of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, at yours,” he stated with mock seriousness. Then, shaking his head affectionately, said, “Breakfast with the lads, if you’ll follow me, my friend.”

After Bilbo had put on his jacket, leaving his waistcoat behind (it was beginning to feel tight), they made their way down the torch-lit hall, making a few turns before coming upon a sizable dining area, with a few finely crafted tables and benches filled with modest fare: tack biscuits, cured meats, preserved fruits and vegetables, and somehow, they’d managed eggs. Bilbo stomach rumbled excitedly the moment the scent hit, and he was grateful that his nausea of months earlier had gone, strong as these smells seemed to be.

Most of the company sat on the benches, and Bilbo saw, to his great surprise, that Fili and Kili were present, though they sat in solid chairs with backs at the end of one table, each moving gingerly, still bandaged. Bofur saw his eyes widen, and leaned closer to explain over the din of cheerful dwarves. “They begged poor Oin to let them join the company for breakfast. We had to set them up at their chairs. Fili can’t walk yet,” he paused, voice dropping even lower. “Kili can, but even he tires quickly, poor lad.” Bilbo nodded, noticing that the only two still missing were Dwalin and Thorin, which seemed likely.

By then, the company had noticed Bilbo and were waving him over, shouts of his name (and “lad,” and “Master Baggins,” along with the odd “Master Boggins” from Kili, who Bilbo was sure no one could even doubt the spirit of). He sat down between Bofur and Nori, the latter giving him a silent, if genial, nod. Someday Bilbo would have a conversation with Nori. Someday.

Plates were passed about, and food was dished soon after, and mouths were temporarily occupied with eating, though Bilbo’s beloved dwarves soon remembered their skills at multitasking. Bilbo mainly listened, enjoying the camaraderie and the chance to catch up on his friend’s lives since his absence. The whole time, he watched Fili and Kili out of the corner of his eye. Kili did not move his left arm at all, in fact it seemed to be bandaged closely to his chest to prevent movement. His color was still pallid, and he seemed weary, almost out of breath, as though the poison was still causing him sickness. Fili favored his right side, and Bilbo was reminded that he had broken ribs as well as legs in his fall. Bilbo pushed the memory of the fall out of his mind, shuddering, and tried to focus back on the conversations around him.

Conversation stopped, however, when a new figure entered the room. Actually, it was two figures, as Dwalin helped Thorin walk the short distance to the chair nearest the entrance. Bilbo’s breath slipped out of him. Even needing assistance to walk, Thorin was an imposing form, regal, and it seemed as though the only thing that could bend him was the weight of his station, rather than some battle wound or mundane cares. A true king he seemed then to Bilbo, and mixed emotions of guilt, pride, and sorrow unfurled in his chest. When the dwarves, minus Fili and Kili, stood, Bilbo did as well. With an affected reservedness that Bilbo could see right through, Thorin calmly bowed his head and motioned for them to sit.

“How are you feeling, Thorin?” Gloin, who was seated to his left, across from Balin, asked, sparking a slew of other questions from the rest of the group. The atmosphere relaxed, and Bilbo allowed himself a moment to adjust: dwarves could go from serious and formal to boisterous and friendly with a speed that sometimes made his head spin. Dwarvish customs, he supposed, were part of the adventure. The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, and Bilbo found himself avoiding Thorin’s gaze.

Even after the food was gone, the company lingered, interest in the well-being of Thorin, the boys, and Bilbo trumping all other cares, though talk of the formers’ injuries were gently circled around. Finally, Bilbo looked up, noticing eyes on him, many with mischievous twinkles in them. Bilbo blushed, ears twitching as he realized he hadn’t heard whatever comment or question had been directed at him. “What?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Ah, Ori just noted you looked well, and Bifur said he was glad to see you’ve regained your weight!” Bofur informed him, a playful smile on his face. “Though I must say it’s all gone straight to your middle!” He laughed then, moving to poke Bilbo’s stomach. Bilbo shrank back, covering his belly with both hands, entirely out of fear of being tickled.

“Enough!” The word boomed across the table, and Bilbo and the dwarves turned to see Thorin standing at his full height, looming over the table, hands pushing himself up. “Do not harm Bilbo!” Everyone looked at the hobbit then, even those who had not been paying attention to the exchange. Bilbo felt himself go red then, and before he could speak, Thorin continued, “You might hurt--”

“No he won’t,” Bilbo put in then, shaking his head and glaring at Thorin. This was not the time to share with the dwarves the news of his pregnancy. Bilbo wasn’t ready. “I’m fine. Everything is fine,” he finished, gritting his teeth when Thorin made to argue. Balin, thank him, reached out to pat Thorin’s arm, bringing the dwarven king back to his senses. He sat down roughly, and Oin stood up then, brusquely noting that it was high time that Fili and Kili return to their cots for some rest. In the shuffle of dwarves jumping up to assist in the clean up and return to rooms, Bofur laid a hand softly on Bilbo’s arm.

“I am sorry, Bilbo,” and Bilbo saw his friend’s face lined with obvious worry and regret. The hobbit shook his head, absentmindedly rubbing the part of his bump that Bofur had almost poked.

“You were not about to hurt me, Bofur,” he said, meaning every word. “At the worst, it would have tickled. You would not have hurt me. At all,” he reaffirmed forcefully, just in case the later revelation of his pregnancy would cause Bofur to worry. His friend smiled, still a little glum, and wandered over to help Fili. Bilbo sighed, feeling upset at the way the whole scene had played out. Thorin’s obvious overreaction, coupled with his near-reveal… Apparently they had some things to discuss. Today.

Chapter Text

Bilbo worked for a little while with Dori and Ori cleaning up after breakfast and getting himself acquainted with the nearby food stores, noting to Dori that he would be happy to help him and Bombur in the preparation of meals. Dori eventually had Ori help Bilbo find his way back to the his room, and Bilbo learned that the entire company was now living in that corridor. He felt relief to be so close to his friends now, even if, as Ori explained, they would eventually move into a different area of the city, once more dwarves returned and the rebuilding was farther along. For now, the young dwarf informed him, Balin had decided, with the help of Dwalin and Oin, that the company should be kept near to each other, and close to the parts Erebor currently in use, to ensure that someone was always nearby in case of trouble.

Ori left Bilbo with a shy bow, and Bilbo turned to his door, then stopped. There was nothing in his room he really needed right now, not so much as he needed to set things right with Thorin, whatever that would mean. He sighed, walking a few paces in what he knew was the wrong direction. He wanted to peek in to see Fili and Kili in their room. Maybe seeing the boys, who he knew had forgiven him, would help him to feel better about Thorin. The boys could be excellent back up, especially when they could convince their uncle of almost anything. But they were asleep already, and rightly so. Bilbo shook his head at himself, and walked back towards Thorin’s room.

Thorin’s door, Bilbo thought, was as imposing as the man himself. Probably this was a trick of the hobbit’s anxiety. The nice breakfast had strengthened his resolve, he had thought, but now, face with the conversation he had been dreading for a month and longer, he wasn’t so sure. But it had to be done. Bilbo needed, and wanted, to tell the company about his pregnancy, and he wanted Thorin to share in that, and so they must be put on the same page. And in order for that to happen, they had a few things to work out. It would be unpleasant, and Bilbo would steel himself, but he was a Baggins. He did not shirk, and he did not run away from unpleasant tasks. He would grit his teeth and bear it.

He gave a perfunctory knock on the door, and pushed it open. Thorin was seated on a chair at a table, looking over various papers with a solemn expression. He turned to Bilbo, and a hand went to his chest, a grimace screwing his facial features out of place.

“Thorin?” Bilbo took a step forward, unsure if he should stay or run for Oin. Thorin held up his other hand, taking a careful breath.

“My… apologies, Bilbo,” Thorin said quietly, rubbing his chest as he stood. “After what I am told was an entire month of rest, the wound of Azog’s sword inflicts a surprising amount of pain. I am well, it is really not anything,” he added, seeing Bilbo’s expression. Bilbo looked to the floor, having forgotten why he came. Curse Thorin for reminding him how much he could have lost. No, curse Azog! Curse them both.

“I just came to see how you were,” Bilbo found himself saying, tonelessly.

“I am fine,” Thorin returned, equally as terse. “As you said yourself to be earlier.” So he had paid attention to what Bilbo was saying at breakfast.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, suddenly cross. “I am, actually, quite fine. I am great, really, compared to some.” He motioned at Thorin before continuing. “Lucky to be so, to be honest, but I don’t need you flying off the handle at anyone who comes near me. I am quite capable of taking care of myself,” he added, feeling his face turn hot as his words got louder.

“Are you?” Thorin asked, terribly quiet. “Are you, indeed? I hear you’ve been living in Dale-- Dale! The city of men! Instead of safely in Erebor, where we could keep an eye on you!” he finished, shouting.

“Keep an eye on me?” Bilbo laughed, shortly, without humor. “You’ve had two eyes shut for a month, Thorin! If not for longer than that.” His tone was horrible there, but he couldn’t stop. His fists were balled, stiff at his sides, and he was shaking. How dare Thorin be upset at where he had been living. He hadn’t even been awake! “You could hardly have protected me while you were raging needless war against those who would be our allies! You could hardly have protected me when you couldn’t protect yourself!” Bilbo was worked up now, saying things he hadn’t realized he had thought, hadn’t realized he was angry about

Thorin ignored the dig at his gold-sickness. “My injury is no excuse for your reckless behavior! I see now I can hardly protect you from your own stupidity! You have no thought to your safety! You’ve been gallivanting off in a city of men, someone of your size, of your condition!”

“My condition! And where was your thought of my condition when you tried to throw me over the rampart!”

The silence dropped over them as if it physically crushed them, and then it stretched on for a long, terrible moment. Bilbo felt sick, and he realized he was shaking, and he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t look at Thorin’s face, couldn’t see the awful realization creep into the dwarf’s eyes.

“When I…”

Bilbo looked at the ground, rage and fear and guilt and pity welling up in his chest, pressing against the backs of his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see the sick look on Thorin’s face, matching what he knew to be his own. The past two months, since Thorin had begun to succumb to the madness, he had felt hurt and fear and anger, at Thorin, at the dragon who cursed the gold, at himself for feeling so helpless. He knew Thorin was sick, but still he hated the dwarf’s actions, so reckless and uncaring. He knew he couldn’t help it, that he was not himself, but it was Thorin’s body, and Thorin’s eyes that had been overcome, and it was those eyes that haunted Bilbo when he slept.

Thorin fell to his knees, the crashing sound jolting Bilbo to the present. He could not see the dwarf’s face, but his shoulders were hunched with pain. A broken sob came from behind the hand Thorin clutched to his mouth. Bilbo felt his own hand cover his mouth; he was still shaking, his own shoulders tense.

“Bilbo,” Thorin sobbed, and Bilbo finally knelt in front of Thorin’s huddled form. “I am wretched, Bilbo.” His voice came quietly, wobbling with self-hatred, and he did not raise his head. Bilbo wanted to reach out to him, but didn’t. “I have committed against you the most grievous act, to put you and our child in peril. I did not-- I had forgotten… what I did...”

“You did not know, Thorin,” Bilbo said softly. “I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t even think about it at the time. You had no way of knowing.”

“It does not matter,” Thorin spit, still talking to the ground. “I nearly killed you, my love, my most treasured, and that alone would be enough to condemn me. I had forgotten… and now I know .”

Bilbo’s chest hurt, a real physical pain, and once again he understood the term ‘heartbreak’. “You weren’t yourself, Thorin. It was the dragon sickness, I know that. You know it too.”

“Yes, I know it.” Thorin looked up at Bilbo now, his eyes dark and tortured. “And you knew it first, and I nearly killed you. Better for it to have been me. I-- I should have died in battle.”

Bilbo choked, flinching to hear his deepest fears, his nightmares spoken aloud with such conviction. “No, Thorin, no, please. I don’t want that. I don’t want it.” He was crying now, crying along with Thorin, and he reached out to hold on to Thorin’s arms. “I wanted to protect you, Thorin, I couldn’t let you die. That’s why I gave Bard the Arkenstone, that’s why I stole it from you! It was the gold sickness that was driving you mad, making you cruel.” He sobbed, one hand coming to rest on his bump. “But I wanted to save you because I needed you, alive, with me. We need you, Thorin, we still both need you.”

Thorin bowed low from where he was kneeling, almost to the floor, and Bilbo reached out to pull Thorin’s head to his chest. They were both crying, and Thorin was gripping to him tightly, and eventually Bilbo could make out the words the dwarf was repeating, over and over, “I’m sorry, Bilbo, I’m sorry…”

***

It was some time before either of them moved. Thorin’s breathing had calmed, his apologies had slowed as Bilbo began to stroke his hair. Tears had stopped, and Bilbo shifted, prompting Thorin to straighten back up, eyes on the floor between them. There was an awkward silence, and Bilbo coughed.

“Thorin,” he started. “I do not blame you, for your sickness. I watched it overcome you once, and I can not-- will not -- watch it consume you again. I know you feel you must right your wrongs, but I need you to also think about us. The three of us,” he clarified, touching his fingers to his abdomen. “We both did things that have caused the other, and ourselves, pain. But I took the stone, and I stayed during the battle, to ensure that you would be there in the end. Because that is what I need.”

Thorin was silent, and Bilbo reach out a hand to touch the dwarf’s face, turning it gently upwards to meet his gaze. “Bilbo,” Thorin repeated, “I wish to do for you whatever I can. My life, the life of our company, of my sister’s-sons, of my own child, are because of you now. I would do what I can to repay you, and atone for my misdeeds. I can ask nothing of you, Bilbo, yet I will. I ask that I may see our child, if you’ll allow it.”

Bilbo sighed, leaning forward to move into Thorin’s lap. He took the hands of the surprised dwarf and wrapped them around himself, placing their combined hands on his bump. The fluttering returned, having been absent most of the morning. Thorin’s hands moved instinctively, rubbing the part where the fluttering was strongest.

“I’ll more than allow it, Thorin. I ask for it. I want you, us. I want us to rebuild what we had.” Bilbo spoke softly, leaning back into Thorin’s shoulder. It felt so right to be near him, safe in his arms, engulfed in his scent. This sense of security, of love, of being cherished: Bilbo had craved it, more with each day of his pregnancy. His fear and guilt and anger weren’t gone, but had subsided once spoken aloud. To know that Thorin truly regretted his actions, even if he was not entirely to blame, comforted the hobbit, letting him know that the true Thorin, his lover, was back.

“I swear to you Bilbo, I will make this right. You give me more than I deserve,” Thorin murmured into the hobbit’s hair, gently squeezing him close. “I will do what I can to be worth these gifts… Bilbo?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure Bofur would not have harmed you?”

Bilbo chuckled. “Yes. My biggest threat was being tickled.”

Chapter Text

“What are ye baking, Bilbo?” Bombur’s friendly baritone asked, shaking the hobbit out of his thoughts and back to the company’s private kitchen.

The question came a few days later. Bilbo and Thorin had spent much of the day after their talk, and the following, in quiet companionship. Bilbo rested, worn out by the events of the past few days, and Thorin worked. Bilbo was content to simply be near Thorin, still internally marveling at the fact that the dwarf had woken up. Sometimes, when Thorin wasn’t looking, Bilbo would gaze at the dwarf in wonder and love, looking away quickly when he was nearly caught. Unknown to Bilbo, Thorin did the same thing.

They spoke very little those few days, in polite, soft sentences, but they agreed that the dwarves should know as soon as possible. The problem was getting everyone together at one time, because, as Bilbo pointed out, they might otherwise hurt someone’s feelings. So Thorin agreed that they would wait for a company supper, even if that meant he had to wait a few days to share the news.

Thorin had to wait longer than he thought. Bifur and Bofur left early one morning to survey some of the closer mines and evaluate the safety and likelihood of reopening. The next day, Nori took Ori to Dale to look over the trading routes and… some other task Bilbo wasn’t sure of. Fili and Kili started rehabilitative exercises during this time, and even Kili was often too tired to leave their rooms for meals. Bilbo, having lived with his secret for several months already, chuckled at Thorin’s impatience, but secretly adored the excitement the dwarf shared with him at the prospect of fatherhood.

Finally, the company, all fourteen, gathered for supper one night, celebrating the importation of some root vegetables from the trade in Dale, as well as better baking supplies. Usually meals were shared with the other dwarves in the mountain, those volunteer’s from the Iron Hills who had chosen to stay in Erebor and help rebuild for the reward of a new home and favorable standing in the reborn kingdom. When Bilbo had learned that the company would share this meal together, however, he had hurried to the food stores, begging Dori to allow him some of the provisions to bake a special dessert. Now, after dinner (during which he had hardly been able to contain his excitement, let alone help Thorin contain his) Bilbo was pulling his sweet treat out of the oven, shooing Bombur back into the dining hall as he did.

“Just a bit of dessert, I’ll bring it out in a moment,” Bilbo tutted, trying and somehow failing to use his stern voice despite the grin that threatened to break over his face. The cake didn’t look exactly like it would have in the Shire, when the addition of fruits, nuts and spices would have made it prettier, but it would certainly do.

Bilbo stepped back into the dining hall, making quick eye contact with Thorin, who was the only dwarf to know exactly what was going on. The strange behavior of the two finally seemed to be catching the attentions of the rest of the company, and the dwarves quieted as Bilbo carried the cake over to where Thorin was seated. The hobbit set the cake on the table and, reaching down to clasp Thorin’s hand in his, cleared his throat.

“In the Shire,” he started, blushing as he felt all eyes on him, “you would all already know that we were celebrating because of this cake. It’s not quite how we would make it back home, but generally the point is sharing a sweet, freshly-baked treat while something else sweet is cooking. What I mean,” he tried, noting confused glances back towards the kitchen, “is that there is something about hobbits that you may not know. It is very easy for us to have large families, because all hobbits can carry young. Including males. So with this cake, I’d like to announce that we--” a smiling glance at Thorin “-- are pregnant.”

A silence, and then Gloin spoke. “You what?”

“We are going to be parents,” Thorin cut in, his own excitement breaking his usually reserved exterior.

There was more silence, and finally Oin stood up, trumpet held in one ear as he authoritatively announced, “It is true. All the signs are there. Our hobbit is, indeed, pregnant.” And that is when the dwarves began to cheer. The next few minutes were a whirlwind of exuberant-yet-overly-gentle pats on the back and head for Bilbo, almost-violent pats on Thorin, and excited yelling. To his great annoyance, Bilbo was crying again, causing many of the company to laugh good-naturedly. Dori took over the serving of cake, and Bilbo was steered to his seat.

“I’m quite alright,” he protested, but Thorin only smiled at him, shaking his head.

“To carry young, amongst dwarves… it is a sacred gift. We treat our mothers with care. You will have to get used to this.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, his own memories of heavily pregnant hobbits working around their homes floating in his mind, but kept quiet. Now was the time to eat and celebrate, not argue. Besides, the curious dwarves had questions.

“How far along are you?” Bombur inquired.

“When will the bairn get here?” put in Balin.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Ori asked, shyly.

“Who d’you think his favorite cousin will be?” Kili shouted, and Fili laughed.

“Is that why you look so round, friend?”

That last question earned Bofur a sharp elbow to the gut, courtesy of Bilbo himself, but the hobbit smiled around his cake. “Well, I am nearly six months along. I’m surprised I’m not bigger, actually, though I was rather small myself when I was born.” He put his hands on his belly, realizing he wasn’t totally sure if he was the right size.

“Oh, only six months, that’s alright then,” Oin nodded. “Not that far after all.”

Bilbo looked up to see other dwarves nodding. “What? What do you mean? That’s nearly finished!”

Oin shook his head, but it was Bombur who replied, laughing. “Dwarf lasses carry for eleven months, Bilbo, you’ve got a ways to go yet!”

Bilbo turned what must have been an odd shade of pale and turned to Thorin, who had just put a hand on his shoulder. “How long do hobbits normally carry their young for, Bilbo?” Thorin asked, giving Bilbo a curious look.

“Seven,” Bilbo replied faintly. “I thought I was nearly done.”

Thorin and Oin exchanged glances, but Bofur put his arm around Bilbo comfortingly. “Hey, I was only joking, Bilbo. You’re not that big yet. And now you’ve got the whole company to help you, right lads?” There were nods, and Bofur continued. “Don’t you worry, Bilbo. We’ll fatten you and the babe up in no time!”

Cake was eaten, excited jokes were made, and finally supper was cleared. Bilbo remained seated at the direction of nearly every dwarf, who had all taken it upon themselves to ensure the Bilbo did not get up to clean. Finally, when most of the dwarves were either busy in the kitchen or talking near the fireplace, Bilbo scooted himself over to where Fili and Kili were seated. Kili grinned at him furiously, and Fili leaned forward as best he could. “A new cousin, eh?” the older of the two smiled at Bilbo softly, and Bilbo smiled back.

“I hope that’s alright with you two,” he offered, hands still resting over his bump, which seemed even larger now that everyone knew and had been staring. Fili nodded enthusiastically while Kili exclaimed, “Of course!” Fili then hesitantly reached out his hand, then dropped it.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo, I didn’t mean--” Fili stopped, looking embarrassed, and Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

“Fili, you didn’t do anything wrong!” The hobbit picked up Fili’s hand, placing it near his own on his rounded stomach, and Fili’s eyes widened. “You’re family, after all,” Bilbo added, his expression softening from shyness to affection.

“Oh,” Fili said, softly, ducking his head as he blushed. “It’s only… for dwarves, it’s considered rude unless the mother offers first.” Fili explained sheepishly.

Bilbo patted his arm. “Well, that’s very polite. But you two are always welcome,” he assured them, moving in between their chairs so that Kili, who was straining with excitement, could reach his hand out also. They were lucky, for in the next few seconds, the baby seemed to wake up (probably from the cake, Bilbo thought), fluttering against their hands. The brothers gasped, and Kili looked at Bilbo with glee.

“There he is! I felt him!”

Bilbo laughed, and looked over to Thorin, whose expression was so full of love and joy in that moment that Bilbo couldn’t help but think-- this is how it was supposed to be. This is home. This is family.

Chapter Text

Fire.

There was fire.

Loud, crashing noises from all around him, and it was hard to see. There was screaming and shouting and wails, horrible cries of anguish and pain and fear. Bilbo was afraid, too, so afraid. Bodies were running past, and the air was icy and hot together, and Bilbo had to get out of there. He had to make it to Thorin. Where was Thorin?

It was so dark, but the light had just been there. Where did the light go? The smoke and ash were blocking out the light, Bilbo thought. The smoke from the fire was making everything dark, horrible black. What was on fire? Lake-Town? Dale? It was the mountain. He gasped for air, clutching his arms around himself as he stumbled, trying not to be hit. The mountain was so large, the ground rocky and uneven, and he couldn’t see where he was going. He had to keep going. Get to Thorin. Get to Thorin.

He wasn’t in the mountain anymore, he wasn’t where Bilbo had left him. Bilbo was shivering, but not from the cold. He barely noticed. He was running, stumbling, climbing. He had to get to Thorin, he had to get to his family, save them--

But Fili was falling in front of him, falling, and Bilbo was falling too. It was a horrible, sickening feeling, his stomach falling out from under him, heart in his throat. He stopped falling, but Fili didn’t-- but there was Kili, bleeding. So much blood, gasping, horribly pale. No, no, no…

Thorin.

Thorin?

Bilbo… Thorin was calling for him, voice too faint, Bilbo wouldn’t reach him in time…

Bilbo…

Thorin?

Bilbo gasped awake, panting, sticky and sweaty and cold. His breaths were so loud, his shaking so intense, that he couldn't hear his voice being called. Or maybe he could, maybe it was still the dream. No-- no it was Thorin. Bilbo could see his lips moving, forming his name, Thorin’s concerned face, his deep, dark eyes full of worry. There were hands on Bilbo’s shoulders-- Thorin’s hands. Bilbo reached out to him instinctively, as his mind began to belatedly use logic. He was fine, everything was fine, it was just a dream, but Bilbo’s body burrowed into Thorin’s lap, still shaking.

“Bilbo, Bilbo, what is it?” Hearing came back then, followed by a sense of where he was. He was in the room he was sharing with Thorin, a slightly large room, down the hall from where he had slept the first few nights in the mountain. Thorin had made the offer shyly, assuring Bilbo that he could sleep in any room he wished, that Thorin would not be upset, but he had requested two beds from Dori, it was just so Bilbo would have someone nearby. Bilbo had smiled, feeling shy himself, and replied that he would very much like to share a room, and thank you.

Bilbo appreciated this decision now, as Thorin held him tightly while his breaths shuddered back to normal. The room was very dark, save for a few embers in the fireplace, and it might have been cool, but for Thorin’s warmth. “Bilbo, what is it? Tell me, are you ill?”

“It was a dream,” Bilbo croaked, then cleared his throat, too shaken to be embarrassed by his behavior at the moment. “There was-- fire, and Fili was falling, and Kili was-- and-- you--” he gasped, trembling, eyes screwed shut. He felt Thorin’s arms gather him closer to the dwarf’s chest, a hand stroking his hair, and he tried to stop shivering, stop seeing his dwarves in pain and worse. “I couldn’t save you…”

“Shh, Bilbo, ghivashel, it’s okay, we’re okay…” Thorin cooed into his hair, in between soft kisses. The dwarf swayed gently, his low voice soft and comforting, and although Bilbo didn’t understand the Khuzdul words he peppered into his murmurs, they still sounded sweet and familiar, as if he did know them, and had just forgotten, and Thorin was reminding him of a part of himself.

As his heart rate returned to normal, it registered to Bilbo that this was the first time he and Thorin had really embraced since that awful discussion a few nights ago. Thinking back on it now, Bilbo realized that Thorin’s formality and respectful, reserved behavior had actually been more than that, and the dwarf was giving him a very wide berth, and Bilbo had noticed, sure, but something about the way Thorin was holding him now hit this fact home. He pulled back, suddenly unsure. He wouldn’t have Thorin finally touching him just because the dwarf thought him weak and in pain. If Thorin didn’t want to touch him throughout the day, he wouldn’t ask him to now, either. Bilbo slid out of Thorin’s embrace and onto the floor, not seeing Thorin’s expression when he did. It was a mix of concern, longing, and hurt.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry to have woken you,” Bilbo started, keeping his voice as steady as he could manage.

Thorin dropped his hands into his lap, feeling suddenly empty and unsure himself. How stupid he had been to run to Bilbo and try to hold him, when it was clearly not what he wanted. He cleared his throat, replying “It is no matter,” and he winced as his words sounded just as flat as he had intended. They did not betray his true emotions, and neither did they seem to comfort Bilbo-- or himself. He watched as Bilbo’s shoulders stiffened, then sank slightly.

Perhaps the hobbit was merely humoring him, Thorin thought as he stood, wishing he could think of something else to say. No words came, for they were trapped inside his mind as he watched Bilbo stand still, facing away from him. Thorin wished he could reach out and touch Bilbo, smooth away the tension in his shoulders, ease the shivering, run his hands through those soft curls. But no, Bilbo did not want that. He had consented to share a room out of practicality and perhaps-- it pain Thorin’s heart immensely to realize this-- out of pity. Perhaps Bilbo was merely being the gracious, kind being Thorin had fell in love with, and was allowing Thorin proximity to their child out of a sense of duty. Thorin choked at the thought, and turned away to his own bed.

Bilbo heard the soft shuffling and turned his head to see Thorin’s back, and held back a sigh. Thorin had done his duty, given him comfort, but it was clearly outside of the dwarf’s own comfort for him to be near Bilbo. A horrible thought crossed his mind-- that Thorin found him disgusting. Was it because he was pregnant? No, that couldn’t be it… surely even though dwarven males did not carry young, Thorin understood that hobbits did. And he had seemed so happy at the prospect of a child. That kind of joy, in the moment of hearing the news, couldn’t have been false. So it must be something else.

Bilbo climbed back into his bed, turning on his side to the wall. Though his bump was likely not as large as it would grow to be in the next few months, it was already a bit heavy on his back, and turning to his side was the most comfortable way to lay. He usually preferred his other side, to be quite honest, but he couldn’t bear to stare at Thorin’s back, watch the person he loved turn away from him. Thorin had loved him back, once, the look in his eyes and his gentle treatment during their lovemaking had proven that, and Bilbo’s swelling stomach was a physical reminder. But although the dwarf seemed to care for him now, something made Thorin want to shy away from Bilbo.

Bilbo slid his hands around his belly. The fluttering that had been going as wild as his heart rate a few minutes ago had quieted, only a shift or two every few seconds. It seemed that being in Thorin’s arms had calmed both Bilbo and the babe. The hobbit remembered his interactions with Thorin over the past week, since Thorin had woken. The two of them had reunited joyously, bonded over their child, shared the news with the company, and argued and cried together, but it struck Bilbo that while Thorin had apologized to him, he had not done the same.

That was it, that’s why Thorin was keeping his distance. Bilbo had not apologized for stealing the Arkenstone, not to Thorin, not well enough. How stupid Bilbo was! Of course his betrayal was still between them. Bilbo had had a month to reconcile his faults, forgive and miss his dwarves, but Thorin had not had time to forgive Bilbo. Bilbo would have to apologize, truly, and then hope that in time, Thorin would have it in his heart to forgive his trespasses.

Across the room, Thorin was similarly contained within his thoughts. He reached into the pocket of the pants he wore to sleep, pulling out the acorn. He had Found it in his hand when he had awoken, and had apparently clinched it tightly once he found Bilbo unconscious on the floor. He had slipped into his pocket to help or in place Bilbo on the cot, talking into his pocket absentmindedly and his worry. He looked at it now, remembering Bilbo’s words. The hobbit had intended to return to the Shire, to his comfortable armchair and garden, and plant it there. Through their courtship on the second half of their journey, Thorin had hoped to convince Bilbo to stay with him, make his home in the mountain, and plant the seed there. Now Thorin wondered if Bilbo would not rather still leave.

Chapter Text

Midwinter passed into the long, cold dark of January, but Bilbo was surprised at how warm and welcoming the halls of Erebor could be. A few more groups of settlers had arrived from the Iron Hills, bringing more items, courtesy of Dain, to trade and assist in the rebuilding. Letters had been sent after the battle, nearly three months ago now, back to the Blue Mountains, and Gandalf had promised that they would be delivered swiftly, but travel for most of the company’s kin would be impossible until spring. Bilbo saw the longing in their eyes for their families and friends, and did his best to make the mountain feel like home, for all of them.

For Bilbo, this meant helping Dori in the preparations of the residential halls, as often as he was allowed. Dori had a team of strong dwarves from Dain’s troops to assist in the clearing of these spaces of debris, and in the heavy lifting of furniture, but he appreciated the hobbit’s eye for interior decoration. Bilbo was also kept busy helping Bombur in the kitchens, sorting, storing, and preparing food. Living arrangements were constantly changing as the mountain underwent a sort of winter-cleaning, and by the end of most days, it was all Bilbo could do to knit for an hour or so before bed. Knitting was peaceful, and reminded him of home, but some nights, it left his mind too free to wander anxiously over the past and the future.

Luckily, trade with Dale opened up access to fabric and sewing materials, so Bilbo began to make himself, and his babe, some clothes. Being back with his dwarves meant that Bilbo was eating better and much more relaxed, and at six and a half months, his regular clothes were now tight around his middle. Thorin didn’t seem to mind this look at all, but Bilbo wished for looser garments and easier movement.

Thorin himself kept fairly busy, working daily with Balin, Dwalin, Nori, and Gloin to draft trade agreements, divide jobs and wealth towards various projects, and write new laws and treaties. Because Bilbo was given ample, sometimes even too much, time for breaks throughout the day, he took to delivering lunch to Fili and Kili while they worked on their healing exercises. For the boys, it was an excuse to hear any and all news about the baby (not that there was much), and for Bilbo, it was an excuse to feel busy and helpful, and keep his mind off his worries.

Bilbo was on his way to their new, larger chambers with a basket of food and a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth under one arm one day when a crashing noise startled him, causing him to drop the bread in the corridor. The hobbit looked down at the bread with possibly the first and only look of disgust he would ever give food, and tried to pick it up, his seven-months-pregnant belly getting in the way. “Blast it,” he grumbled to himself, using the wall to steady himself as he bent over, center of gravity shifting wildly. “You know better than to carry it like that, Bilbo.”

A much more frustrated voice came from inside the boy’s room. Forgetting the bread, Bilbo straightened himself, peeking around the doorway. It seemed Fili had fallen to the ground, and Kili, still only using one arm, was trying to help him up. Bilbo’s heart constricted. Fili could barely stand yet: it had been two months after the battle before Oin was sure his bones had mended, and by then, the muscles in his legs had become tired and weak with lack of use.

“... a good thing Bilbo is having Uncle’s baby, there’s no way Erebor would follow a crippled king,” Fili’s uncharacteristically angry voice stated.

“Fili!” Kili’s voice sounded worried and shocked.

“Get off,” came the reply, and Bilbo could only see that Fili was now seated on a bench by a table. Kili’s breathing was heavy, his left arm cradled to his side, and though he couldn’t see Bilbo, Bilbo could see the younger dwarf’s face, scrunched up with pain and sadness. Kili turned away from his brother, and Bilbo turned back to the hallway, leaning against the wall again.

Of course Fili would not be as content as he seemed. Of Thorin’s two nephews, Fili had been pressured more to follow in his uncle’s footsteps, and either by nature or nurture, seemed to take after him. Bilbo knew Thorin’s stoicism was often a mask for his true emotions, so it made sense for Fili to share the same method of coping. Bilbo felt a fool for not realizing it earlier. He closed his eyes, trying to prevent the tears that were welling and the horrible, horrible sight of Fili falling, falling, for so long…

“No,” he whispered, shaking himself. He had to stay in the present, not dwell on the memory, or his nightmares. Taking a few deep breaths, he bent back over to retrieve the bread, schooling his face into something that would seem neutrally cheerful. He didn’t know what he could do right now, beyond bring the boys their lunch. Later, though, he knew he would have to figure something out.

“Lunch time!” Bilbo’s singsongy voice surprised even him. Fili’s shoulders hunched, and the young dwarf princeling hesitated just a moment too long before turning around, his own face impassive. Kili looked up from a back corner of the room, where he had been looking over Oin’s healing equipment. Bilbo stood by Fili, placing the basket on the table and his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. He looked down at his blond-haired friend, giving him a warm smile, feeling only very slightly reassured when Fili’s face softened before he looked away.

***

After dinner that night, Bilbo sat in the room he shared with Thorin, knitting by the fire and thinking. Thorin was working at the desk, as he usually did in the evening. The babe, who Bilbo had gotten used to feeling move every couple of minutes, was particularly active, and Bilbo was finding it hard to think. He was working on a set of small shoes-- not quite tiny, because Bilbo was simply unsure of how large the babe would grow before he was born. Or she , he thought. As if on cue, he or she gave a soft, fluttery kick, and Bilbo sighed, putting down the knitting.

It wasn’t that the kicks were hard enough to hurt-- yet-- but that the babe seemed to know that Bilbo was trying to ignore a problem. All day, he had been thinking about the scene with Fili, his fall, his words about Bilbo’s child. It hadn’t yet occurred to the hobbit that his and Thorin’s child would interrupt the current line of succession to the throne of Erebor. Bilbo wasn’t sure how he felt about raising little prince or princess, but he certainly didn’t want to add to Fili’s misery. If ruling and following after his uncle was that important to the dwarf, Bilbo didn’t want to take that away.

But that wasn’t all that was bothering Fili, or Bilbo for that matter. Bilbo sighed again, and Thorin looked over worriedly. “Are you alright, Bilbo?”

Bilbo ducked his head, putting his knitting down beside his chair. “Yes, Thorin, I’m fine. I’m just--” he paused, thinking for a moment, “hungry. I’m going to see about a small snack. I’m hoping it’ll calm the little one down.”

Thorin’s expression softened, but Bilbo, lost in thought, did not see it. He had taken to not looking at Thorin too much, afraid of what expressions of hurt or contempt he might see. He had not yet worked up the courage to speak with Thorin, give him his apologies, and beg forgiveness. Thorin has been so busy, and Bilbo, as disgusted as he was with himself for it, was too afraid to bring it up, lest The dwarves king be reminded of his anger.

“Go on then, Bilbo. I’ve got a bit more to do before I sleep, anyway,” Thorin said, suddenly gruff, and turned back to his work. Bilbo’s heart sank a little, not understanding Thorin’s frustration at his lack of eye contact, and padded out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“Bilbo?”

Bilbo jumped, or would have, had his belly not already weighed so much. Kili was there, standing behind him in the corridor, looking rather uncertain. His arm was in a sling, and his cheeks were sort of pink, his eyes glassy. Bilbo laid a hand on his right arm, concerned.

“Kili, are you alright? You don’t look… quite well.”

The young dwarf shook his head, replying with a soft, “I’m alright,” and Bilbo’s concern deepened. He had learned that dwarves very rarely got sick with any of the ailments that afflicted hobbits or Men, but the blade that had hurt Kili’s arm so badly had been poisoned, and sometimes it seemed as if the young prince was still fighting off the effects. Kili paused, and continued. “I thought-- I thought I wanted to speak to uncle, but since you’re here…” Kili gave a half smile, and Bilbo nodded, thinking to himself that Thorin certainly seemed inaccessible these days.

“Come with me then, your cousin and I need a snack.” Bilbo motioned for Kili to follow him, already thinking what sort of snack he should give the dwarf. Some bread, perhaps? Meat, for strength? And water, or ale? The dwarves seemed as fond as most hobbits of ale as a fortifying substance, but Bilbo knew that sometimes water was what was most needed for a healthy young one to grow. Once in the kitchen, Bilbo motioned to a stool that stood in the corner, waiting until Kili reluctantly sat and accepted some water to begin his food preparations. Ham sandwiches seemed to be just the thing.

“So,” Bilbo began as he buttered the bread. “How are you feeling?”

Kili shrugged on his good side, almost spilling the water he held in that hand. “I’m fine. I get a bit tired, but it’s not bad. Better, than it was,” he added, and Bilbo watched as Kili tried to emulate the same stoicism that Thorin and Fili used. These Durins , Bilbo sighed inwardly. He retrieved some sliced ham and hard cheese from the cold storage adjacent to the kitchen, letting Kili work on his own thoughts as Bilbo finished the sandwiches.

“I saw Fili fall,” Kili started, and Bilbo looked up. The young dwarf was staring glumly at the counter next to him, avoiding Bilbo’s gaze. The hobbit put the sandwiches on plates and slid one into Kili’s line of sight. “During the battle, I mean. Not today. I know you were in the hall,” Bilbo looked up at him, surprised, “but I saw when that orc-scum dropped him, at Ravenhill, before I--”

“Before you were hurt, as well,” Bilbo murmured. Kili nodded, picking up his sandwich. Bilbo, seated on a stack of boxes, did the same, taking a small bite. They ate in silence for a few minutes as Bilbo collected his thoughts. Finally, Bilbo put down his sandwich, mostly eaten. He spoke quietly, looking alternately between the counter and Kili’s face.

“I saw your brother fall, too. On Ravenhill, that is. Today I only saw you try to help him up. But I was there, with Thorin. I made it in time to warn him that it was a trap, but not in time to-- for him to call you back. That’s what he was about to do, when we saw Fili…” Bilbo trailed off, feeling a lump in his throat, but he took a quick breath, keeping his eyes focused on Kili. “I am sorry I didn’t get there sooner, Kili. I am sorry we weren’t quick enough to save you and Fili.”

Kili looked up and nodded, his face contorted with sadness and anger and regret, though Bilbo knew the dwarf was not upset with him. “Fili is afraid,” he rasped, working to control his voice, “and I am, too, that he will not walk again. That uncle will be disappointed in him, and that he will not make a good leader.”

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open. Thorin, disappointed in Fili, in either of them? That was absurd, Bilbo knew… but it didn’t mean Fili’s fears (and Kili’s too, for Bilbo saw the way he held his injured arm, as if it were a burden) were absurd. Bilbo would have to talk to Thorin, help him understand his nephew’s struggles. “Thorin is NOT disappointed in Fili, or you either,” he said, reaching to cup Kili’s face with his hand. “He is, really, quite proud of both of you. All of us are, Kili. You two fought bravely to defend your homeland and your kin, and Thorin knows this. He’s not disappointed in you,” Bilbo repeated for emphasis, “or anyone, except himself.”

Kili nodded again, looking down. Bilbo dropped his hand, thinking of Thorin’s recent behavior. Of course he was worried about rebuilding Erebor, and Bilbo knew that Thorin, though he had watched his father and grandfather rule the kingdom, was still getting used to his numerous duties and responsibilities. Such things were consuming his time and energy. Bilbo tried again. “What has Thorin said about this?”

Kili’s gaze slid up, then away, reluctantly replying “He hasn’t really said much.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “He hasn’t come to see you at all?” Kili shook his head. “What about at meals?”

“We sit at opposite ends of the table, and he usually speaks to Balin and Dwalin, if at all.”

Bilbo nodded and hummed, returning to his sandwich, and motioned at Kili’s half-eaten sandwich. “Are you going to finish that?” he asked with a sly grin.

Kili smiled then and shook his head, getting up off of his stool. “I should get to our rooms. Thanks Bilbo. Thanks, little cousin.” The dwarf gave Bilbo a one-armed hug and a pat on the side of his belly, taking Bilbo’s reassurances that family could touch to heart. Bilbo smiled back at him, and reached for the dwarf’s sandwich as he sadly watched Kili leave the kitchen. Bilbo was definitely going to have to talk to Thorin.

Chapter Text

“Bofur, where exactly are you leading me?” Bilbo asked, for probably the fourth time, light suspicion and amusement coloring his tone. Bofur, of course, only winked, also for the fourth time, and kept his pace.

It was about a week after Bilbo’s late night snack with Kili. The whole company had been in a flurry of excitement and activities, for news had finally come, the day after Bilbo’s late night snack with Kili: their kin in Ered Luin had learned of the Battle and the Reclaiming, and were making preparations to travel to Erebor. Balin had broken the news one night at dinner with the company, and there had been a raucous cheer and celebration for a short time.

“I canna wait to see my wife and the younguns!” Bombur had sighed, leaning back in his chair and chewing on a bit of bread with a thoughtful expression. Bifur patted him on the arm and agreed that seeing his nieces and nephews would be wonderful, and Bilbo knew Bofur was nodding next to him.

“I can finally see my wee Gimli,” Gloin smiled happily, “and my lovely wife. You’d like her Bilbo,” he added turning to the hobbit.

“And you can meet our mother!” Kili’s face had brightened, and even Fili, who had been rather quiet, broke a grin. Bilbo smiled at the happy faces around the table, his arms wrapped around his belly contentedly, and nodded.

“I cannot wait to meet all your families. I’ve heard so much about them, I almost feel as if they are my relatives, too.”

“That’s cause they are, laddie.” Balin smiled at him, and there were nods around the table, some gentle, some enthusiastic. “Just as our home is yours, as well.”

The memory of that conversation warmed Bilbo, making him blush with a shy happiness that almost overcame his nervousness about meeting everyone’s families, especially Thorin’s sister, Fili and Kili’s mother. He was really starting to feel at home in the mountain, surrounded by his dwarves, and the thought that soon there would be more both excited and unnerved him. It would be lovely to have more company, and perhaps even young dwarrows to grow up with his child, but despite the company’s reassurances, he was worried he would be seen as an outsider. He sometimes wondered, too, whether he would ever feel that he fit in here in the mountain, away from nature. He had said as much to Bofur, yesterday during their breakfast, which he imagined was the reason he was now following his gleeful friend through the mountain halls.

“Right this way, my friend, right this way,” Bofur chirped, clearly having trouble keeping his bouncy step slow enough for Bilbo to pad after him. His belly, quite obvious now that he was seven months along, was large enough now to throw off his center of balance, but not yet so large that the normally quick hobbit felt that he was “lumbering”. Of course, Bilbo had thought, remembering that the dwarves gave him a few months to go, that would likely come soon.

“And here-- we-- are!” Bofur’s accent lengthed his vowels already, but the excitement in his voice carried his declaration further as he turned and motioned to a door. The door was rather nondescript, but for its single marking,  what looked to be a rune carved into the middle. Bilbo gave Bofur a confused glance, which was met with a broad grin, and the hobbit sighed. There was nothing for it. He would have to go in.

Bilbo lifted the handle lever that most private dwarven doors seemed to be fitted with and took a breath before stepping inside. Good job that he did, too, for the sight nearly knocked the air out of him.

Sunlight.

Bilbo’s eyes adjusted quickly, and he realized he was actually looking at an interior room, with twelve dwarves and one very large window. No, not a window , Bilbo laughed to himself. It was a door.

“Come in, Master Baggins! Welcome home!” Balin exclaimed cheerily from his place upon a rather fluffy sofa. The dwarves were gathered, a throng of beaming faces all pointed at Bilbo, and he flushed to be in the spotlight. The room was furnished like his sitting room at home, comfy chairs and a sofa near a fireplace, wooden tables and bookcases nearby, from his position near the door, he could see a hallway leading to a rather nice dining room on one side, another hallway on the other. But the most marvelous part was the large doorway that lead out of the mountain, onto what looked like a small garden.

“What is this?” Bilbo exclaimed once he finally recovered.

“These are your rooms, laddie,” Balin smiled. Oin sat beside him, and behind them, to Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin stood, looking regal and nervous. Perhaps he’s worried about pressing political matters, and would rather be attending to them… Bilbo thought, his heart constricting slightly before he pushed the idea away.

“My-- my rooms?” The hobbit looked around again, really noticing now the effort that had gone into finding furniture that looked like it belonged in Bag End. The wooden furniture was a lighter color, made finely but not with the same harsh angles that seemed to dominate dwarven styles. The cushions and decorations had been chosen with comfort in mind, and there was even what appeared to be a hand-knit blanket draped over one chair.

“Do you like it, Bilbo?” Fili asked from where he was seated near the fireplace. Bilbo nodded at him, feeling a little too choked up to reply, and smiled through the welling tears.

“You haven’t even see the best part,” Kili, who was standing next to his brother, grinned, motioning towards the open door to the garden area.

“I thought the best part would be the kitchen and fully-stocked pantry,” Bombur chuckled.

“Or the bedroom, I do hope you’ll find it to be to your liking, Bilbo,” Dori added.

Bilbo was feeling overwhelmed. He had his own kitchen? And pantry? And what seemed like a garden, all within the mountain!

“All that, and the rest of the company down this hall,” Bofur put in, resting a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

Bilbo shook his head, trying to clear it of emotion, but instead the light from the open door grew brighter, and Bilbo saw less, and he leaned against Bofur as he slid to the floor.

“... Bilbo?”

***

Thank goodness for Bofur’s strong mining arms.

This is what Thorin thought as he watched, with unusual detachment, as the hobbit flushed red, then white, and then slid with a strange grace not fitting of his current condition down to the stone floor. Bofur had had his hand on him already, which stirred in Thorin a brief, minor jealousy, without anger but full of longing-- but now he was glad for that hand. After a stretching second, Thorin was across the room himself, gathering Bilbo from Bofur’s arms as the miner, his normally cheerful face white, repeated the hobbit’s name.

“Oin,” Thorin’s voice left his body in a breath, and when he turned, the healer was already on his feet, trumpet in one hand and motioning to the hall where Bilbo’s bedroom was with the other. In another moment, Thorin was pushing the door to the bedroom open with his back, turning swiftly to carry the hobbit across the room to the bed he’d chosen for him. The disappointing thought drifted across his mind that this was not how he had imagined carrying Bilbo into a bedroom for the first time. Oin followed, then Gloin to help his brother if needed.

“Out of my way,” Oin snapped, without heat. Gloin set the healer’s bag down on the bedside table, turning to Thorin as Oin got to work.

“I’m sure he’s okay, Thorin, Reeli fainted quite often when she was carrying Gimli,” Gloin murmured. “Especially when she was about this far in. The bairn messes with their air sometimes. Not to worry.”

Thorin nodded, despite a flash of anger-- the person he loved, the person carrying his child had just fainted dead away, of course he was worried-- and fought down his adrenaline, eyes never leaving Bilbo. It wouldn’t help for him to get upset. He had to be here for Bilbo. He had already failed the hobbit so much in the less-than-a-year he’d known him. He would not continue to fail him now, even if Bilbo did not love him back.

“There ye are, laddie,” came Oin’s brusque voice, and Thorin stepped forward to see beyond him, see Bilbo opening his eyes. “Steady on, lad, ye jus’ fainted. Stay still,” Oin continued, checking the hobbit’s pulse.

“I’m fine, I’m quite-- I’m quite fine,” Bilbo protested weakly, and Thorin let out a breath.

“Of course ye are, but humor an old dwarf,” Oin chuckled as patted Bilbo’s arm before turning to address the rest of the room. “What’s say we get this hobbit some water? Thorin?”

Thorin started, frowning up at Oin. Of course he wanted to help Bilbo, but he also couldn’t bear to leave. But Bilbo was awake, and if he and the babe needed water, Thorin should provide them with water. He huffed, turning from the room, and strode quickly to the kitchen, ignoring the clambering of curious dwarrows as he went.

“I do think I’m fine,” Bilbo muttered back in his room. Oin, who either didn’t hear or was ignoring him, didn’t look up from his bag, but Gloin gave him a friendly wink.

“We dwarves like to take precautions, Bilbo, especially with expectant mothers,” the redheaded dwarf explained. Bilbo huffed in return, echoing Thorin, and glanced about what he realized was his room. It was finely furnished, with mostly brighter, earthier colors that reminded him of home instead of the dark neutrals and jewel tones that decorated most of the mountain. There was no natural light, but the bright torches in the walls were well placed, giving a cheery mood to the place. It was all entirely too much, but at the same time, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel comfortable.

Thorin returned just as Oin was handing Bilbo a bottle of herbs to add to his daily teas. The older dwarf smiled at Bilbo, reminding him to get plenty of rest and take things slow, and left, followed by Gloin. Thorin stood, cup of water in hand, gazing at the hobbit. Bilbo’s eyes were closed, and he looked so… peaceful. And beautiful. The golden curls that Thorin loved to watch, and longed to touch, framed the hobbit’s face, which had regained its healthy, glowing color. The little body, so soft and inviting, was now a beautiful shape, accommodating the swelling of their child. Thorin ached to hold Bilbo, to touch him, but he knew he shouldn’t.

“Thorin?”

Bilbo’s small voice spurred the dwarf’s legs back into action, and he hurried forward, careful not to spill the cup of water as he knelt by Bilbo’s bed. Bilbo, now propped up on some pillows, smiled softly as he reached for the cup Thorin offered.

“Here is your water, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo winced, and Thorin’s heart thudded.

“What’s wrong, Bilbo, are you ill? Should I retrieve Oin? What’s the--”

“Why must you call me that,” Bilbo whispered, head facing down towards the cup in his hands. “I wish you would call me Bilbo.”

Thorin paused, mouth slightly open. “I’m sorry, Bilbo. I do not mean to hurt you, only to show you proper respect.”

Bilbo sipped his water, eyes not meeting Thorin’s. “I know you may be angry with me, Thorin, but for the sake of our child, I wish we could be on friendlier terms.”

“Angry with you?”

Bilbo glanced up finally, taking in the shocked face of his former lover. His grip around the cup tightened with his shoulders, but he nodded, pressing on.

“I understand why you are, Thorin, and here I am, not even having apologized you to, so I realize why you’ve been distant, and I don’t blame you--” he rose his hand here, cutting off the dwarf’s protests-- “it’s fine. I can take it. But we must come to some sort of agreement. We have to think of our child, Thorin.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin shook his head slowly. “Bilbo, why would I be angry with you?”

This was unexpected. Did Thorin wish for Bilbo to formally apologize, right now? Bilbo set the cup down on the bedside table and shifted so he was sitting in front of Thorin, who did not move. Well, fine. Bilbo would do this sitting down.

“I stole the Arkenstone from you, Thorin. I know it was your birthright. I’ve already apologized to all the others, but it really belonged to you, and I stole it from you. I’ve lived up to my position as burglar,” his voice broke, “and I know that even though I was trying to help you, the betrayal must still sting. So I’m sorry, Thorin Oakenshield. I, Bilbo Baggins, am sorry.”

“My dear Bilbo,” Thorin whispered, his face a mix of sadness, love, and humor. “I am no longer angry with you for that. I have not been since even before the battle. Truly,” he added, seeing Bilbo’s confusion, “for I realized soon after you left that you meant to protect us, avert the coming war. And then you came back, to Ravenhill,” his own voice broke then, and Thorin shuddered, remembering the pain in his chest.

“Thorin?” Bilbo reached out to cup the dwarf’s face, and Thorin opened his eyes, covering Bilbo’s hand with his own.

“Melekun,” Thorin whispered. “All your deeds are forgiven. I ask only the time to allow me to make up for mine.”

Bilbo sat still, trying to comprehend what Thorin was saying. Could Bilbo’s transgressions really be so easily absolved? After so many months of anxiously reliving his decisions, his crimes against Erebor, waiting for the axe to fall-- and Thorin had forgiven him?

“Thorin, I--” Bilbo breathed, then reached forward with his other hand to mirror the first on the dwarf’s face. Touching Thorin, finally, felt so perfect. “I am not angry at your either, Thorin. But why have you been so distant?”

“I presumed you wished for me to be,” Thorin murmured, reaching his own tentative hand to stroke Bilbo’s cheek. “You do not wish for me to stay away?”

“Of course not, you ridiculous dwarf,” Bilbo could not help from laughing. “I’ve missed you, Thorin. But really, you forgive me for taking the Arkenstone?”

Thorin gazed at him, seriously. “There is no jewel in this mountain, or any other on Middle Earth, that is more important to me than you, Bilbo. You and our child, followed by some distance by the kingdom. The stone distracted me from all of these, as well as kinship and friendship. It has been destroyed, Bilbo. You are not a thief, not to me, and not to the Company.”

Bilbo smiled, and Thorin did, too. It was quite a sweet moment, and then--

“Bilbo? Ye alright in there, my friend? Oh, begging yer pardon--” Bofur’s last words were cut short by the slamming of Bilbo’s door, and Bilbo had to chuckle.

“Speaking of the company, they’re all still out there. We had better go-- but may I see you later tonight?” Bilbo looked back at Thorin, who was suppressing his own grin.

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, there’s our hobbit!” A chorus of cheers welcomed Bilbo back into his sitting room, Thorin following after him. A place was made for Bilbo on a rather comfy looking chair near the fireplace, near where Fili was sitting. The rest of the company was gathered around, sitting or leaning against furniture, and a fire had been started in the hearth. Thorin himself made sure that Bilbo was seated before stepping away to pick a chair for himself from the other side of the room, carrying it over to sit nearer to Bilbo, Bofur shifting to let Thorin stay near the hobbit. Bilbo smiled to himself, noting with wry humor that it now, in Erebor, it was probably more often Thorin seated in a large, central chair, and other gathered around him. Bilbo had only visited the throne room once or twice, and Thorin had usually been too busy to be sitting in one place, but that suited the dwarf, who had spent so much time working to serve his dwarves, risking life and comfort, regaining Erebor for them.

“Are ye alright, lad?” Bilbo looked up to see Balin’s kind eyes twinkling at him, his face a mixture of grandfatherly affection and mild concern. Bilbo nodded, brushing off the earlier episode with a wave of his hand.

“Fine, fine, quite fine. Just needed a moment to take in this marvelous gift you all have given me,” he added, grinning. His smiles were returned by the group, and he sat back happily as the Company went on in several minor conversations. Bofur caught his eye and smiled cheekily, and Bilbo gave him a good-humored glare in return. The miner started to tell a story from the previous day’s work in the mines, complete with Bifur’s colorful interjections, much to the raucous delight of the gathered dwarves.

Bilbo looked around the room, noticing the general ease with which the dwarrows conversed. Kili, arm tied firmly against his chest, was still standing near Fili’s seat, but moving with such animation that one didn’t really notice his injury at all. His older brother, though already more reserved and focused, was much quieter, chatting with Nori. His leg was up, and he looked slightly uncomfortable, and Bilbo tried to catch his attention to give him a smile, but the golden-haired prince seemed determined not to look in his direction.

“Do the rooms appear to be to your liking, Mister Bilbo?” Bilbo turned his head to look at Dori, who yet seemed determined to use proper titles with him, despite repeated petitions to just use his first name. Bombur had explained one day in the kitchens that Dori preferred this air of formality with everyone, and that, indeed, even dwarves found him very formal, but it came from a friendly place, and not to worry, they all considered Bilbo family.

“Very much so, Mister Dori,” he returned brightly, dipping his head. “They are quite lovely. And homey, too-- they remind me of Bag End.”

It was true. Rather than furs or silks, the blankets were largely knit or made of quilted cloth, with a warm softness that Bilbo had missed. He wasn’t sure where the dwarves had managed to find light, honey-colored woods, but the furniture was largely made of these, with a few elegantly simple darker woods as accents. The chair he sat in could have been from the Shire, as cushioned as it was. Sinking into its soft support felt incredible on his tired hips and back. He could imagine himself sitting in this chair, next to this fireplace, reading a book, knitting a blanket… and eventually holding his child, cozy and warm and close.

The thought filled him with such a blooming happiness that it squeezed his chest, and the hobbit found himself blinking back tears. Thankfully, the dwarves were now watching Nori and Dwalin recount some happenings in the reconstruction of the market, Nori’s subtle, wry sense of humor now more animated for embellishment, so Bilbo’s sudden burst of emotion went unnoticed. No, he had already fainted in front of the company today, he didn’t need to cry, too.

“Are you alright, Bilbo?”

A mercifully quiet, non-alarming voice came from near his left elbow. It was Fili, green eyes solemn and compassionate as they gazed into Bilbo’s. Bilbo nodded, waiting until he could exhale steadily to reply. The fire behind Fili made his golden hair seem to glow, and in the barely-fading daylight that came from the door on the other side of the large room, Bilbo noticed that while Fili’s color had mostly returned, there were lines of exhaustion and worry that had not been there before the battle. How like Thorin Fili was. Kili was, too, in his stubborn determination and temper, but Fili possesed the same seriousness, the same internal fire that they hid so well.

“I’m quite well, Fili. How are you?” Bilbo pitched his own voice low, hoping to keep the others from noticing either his probing of Fili or his own near-weepy state. He recalled his talk with Kili a week ago, and Fili’s bitter words about his ability to follow in Thorin’s footsteps. The two of them could do with a private chat, but leaving now would raise more suspicion than it would avoid.

Fili shifted uncomfortably, his eyes guarded. “I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt much anymore,” he muttered, and Bilbo imagined he was referring only to the physical pain of his injuries. Fili still used a chair with a back and wheels that had been removed from a smaller wagon to walk, the hobbit knew. He had exercises every day, like Kili, but his progress was much slower. This made sense, of course: his injuries had been far more extensive, while Kili had battled blade-poison mere days after recovering from the first poison arrow.

Clearly, though, Fili did not want to discuss any of this, and Bilbo wouldn’t push, not in a room full of nosy dwarves. Instead he racked his brain for something else to discuss. “These rooms,” he started, hesitating, “in this hall, I mean. Will you move into similar ones? In the royal hall, perhaps?”

At that, a hint of amusement finally softened Fili’s eyes. “These are the royal halls, Bilbo. This is your suite, it connects to Thorin’s. My brother and I, and--” he hesitated, just for a moment, --“our mother, we will also be in this hall. The rest of the company are down two side-hallways.” He paused again, looking unsure, before adding, “I think they chose a separate suite for you from Thorin, to give you privacy, but they can be made to connect, if you wish.”

Bilbo blinked, then smiled. “I am happy to be close to all of you. It will be nice, for both of us,” he finished, his hands coming to rest on top of his bump. Fili looked away, so Bilbo did too, and the two of them sat in silence as the rest of the Company chatted on. The story about the market had ended, and the dwarves had broken into smaller conversations. It was an easy setting, no worried tones, just talking.

“I am very happy for you and Uncle, Bilbo,” Fili spoke back up, though still in a soft voice. “It will be nice to have another family member. But I should warn you-- your son or daughter is going to be spoiled.” And with that he gave Bilbo a genuine smile.

Bilbo smiled back. “I’d expect nothing less.”

***

The Company stayed for dinner, nearly-but-not-quite filling the dining room that separated the sitting room from the kitchen. Much to his protest, Bilbo was seated at the head of the table, Thorin to his right, switched from their usual places in the dining hall the company had been using before. It was because it was his quarters, he was told, not a permanent change, and Bilbo gave in once he recalled the particulars of dwarvish manners. It was better to just accept their eccentricities, he decided, for when in Erebor…

Dinner passed too quickly, though by the time he and the rest of the company made their way out of the kitchen and dining room (for tidying up was quicker with the fourteen of them), night had fallen and the doors to his garden instead reflected the warm light of the fire.

Bilbo paused by the doors, which were mostly glass and wood, noticing a second set of heavier stone doors had been propped open. Dwarvish construction meant that very little of the February cold seeped in, but the cold clear moon, waning from full by just a few days, made him shiver as he looked over the garden. It was a good size, enough for him to plant beautiful flowers near the trees and vegetables farther out. Someday, not too soon, his child could play out there, breathe the fresh air and get color from the sun, and learn to plant things that would grow from the good, clean earth…

“Do you like it, Bilbo?”

It was Thorin, he knew without looking, but turned his head anyway to smile up at the dwarf. “I do,” he said softly. “It feels like home. It is home, I mean,” he added, watching Thorin’s face turn worried. “I do love Bag-End, and the Shire, and I should like to visit it. But now I have everything I need here.” He reached out to touch Thorin’s hand, and the other took it, blue eyes meeting his with happy relief. Bilbo turned further around, realizing it was very quiet for what was supposed to be a room full of dwarves.

“Where did they all go?!” he exclaimed, looking wildly around the empty sitting room. Could twelve dwarves have just vanished into thin air? Or did they melt back into the stone? And how could Bilbo not have noticed?

“They noticed you seemed tired and slipped out, Bilbo. They said to wish you a good night. Kili said you should come see him tomorrow, though,” Thorin said, with some amusement, watching Bilbo’s face as the hobbit smiled and shook his head.

“It appears that we’re alone, then, Thorin.”

The words made Bilbo blush as soon as he said them. They had been sharing a room for nearly two months now; they had been alone together plenty of times. But those moments had been tense, distant, distracted, or else they had been asleep, separated by a room’s length and their own pain and fear.

Thorin’s expression softened, and Bilbo heart fluttered at the sight. The dwarf king reached out towards him, and Bilbo stood, entering the arms that offered embrace. No matter how Bilbo felt, it was comforting to be held by Thorin. The hug ended, and Thorin left one arm reaching uncertainly towards Bilbo’s belly. The hobbit grinned and pulled the large hand closer, letting Thorin feel the flutters. Bilbo closed his eyes happily, reveling in the moment, and felt Thorin drop a soft kiss on his forehead.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” Thorin whispered into his hair. “You are not angry with me?”

“I meant it, Thorin,” Bilbo whispered back, before pulling his head back to look up at his dwarf. "I am not angry with you. And if you meant what you said too, that you're not angry with me... Well, I'd like for us to-- to try to begin again-- if that's what you would like as well, that is--"

"It is," Thorin's face was so warm, so inviting. The look of love, of open affection and admiration, reminded Bilbo of that day on Carrock, the first time Thorin had looked at him that way. He had missed that look, but he realized now how his own guarded expressions, his own discomfort and fear had kept him from being open, too. Thorin continued, "I have no wish to pressure you, Bilbo. But-- would you like me to rest a while with you?"

The hobbit shivered, barely, and not from the slight chill of the garden door. "I would like that very much," he murmured, letting Thorin then lead him back to his room.

The bedroom was warm like the sitting room, lit by well crafted torches that Thorin dimmed as Bilbo shyly removed his outer clothes before climbing into the bed, his round belly making the ascent less than graceful. At Bilbo's nod, the dwarf similarly divested himself of his thick fur jacket, heavy boots, and trousers before following him into the bed. There was plenty of room on the massive mattress, and they lay a foot apart until Bilbo chuckled and moved closer. Returning his grin, Thorin pulled Bilbo to him, folding the hobbit into his body and resting one hand on his swelling stomach. Bilbo reveled in the feeling of Thorin’s head by his, the big, warm hand on his bump, and their child shifting softly between them.

Yes, this was home.

Chapter Text

The first thing Bilbo knew was just how comfortable he was. The blankets were soft, the mattress curved around his body, supporting every heavy limb, and a gentle beam sunlight warmed his face. There was also a heaviness down-- wait. Sunlight?

He cracked an eye open, then another, taking in his surroundings. Of course, he was in his new bedroom, in his suite, and it had a garden, and… apparently a window! The curtains in his room had been drawn heavily yesterday, for Bilbo had not noticed, but now the sun shone into the room, the clear, somewhat pale winter light nonetheless filling the space with cheer. It glinted off the lovely green and yellow blanket that covered his bed, especially the thin, golden thread that was woven through in a pattern of leaves and swirls.

Between the sun and the strange sensation, sleep was slipping away. Bilbo yawned and stretched luxuriously, not remembering until he hit a very solid mass behind him that he had company.

“Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed, rolling over as quickly as his swollen form would let him. Thorin grinned at him, eyes sparkling, and Bilbo blushed. “Thorin! I am sorry, I’d forgotten you were there. You were so still.”

Thorin waved his hand, shrugging away Bilbo’s apology before reaching out, slowly, to pull the hobbit closer. As Bilbo snuggled up to Thorin’s chest, his body still slowly waking up, the dwarf asked, “Did you sleep well, ghivashel?”

“Mm, yes. How long have you been awake? And what is ghivashel?”

“It is you, Bilbo,” came the somewhat cheeky reply, as Thorin’s hands slid to Bilbo’s stomach. Now fully awake, Bilbo shuddered, realizing how the intimacy and the, er, early morning was affecting him. Any clumsiness on Thorin’s part would likely immediately alert the dwarf to what lay below his stomach, if he did not know already. Bilbo shifted, unreasonably embarrassed, and attempted to school his face into something neutral. How mortifying it would be if Thorin thought he couldn't control himself...

“I understand that, but what does it mean?” There was no way to dislodge Thorin’s hands without, ahem, arousing suspicion, or block the dwarf’s hands from traveling lower, so Bilbo settle for resting his own hand on Thorin’s, arching his back ever so slightly to shift his hips away. At seven months, his belly was quite round, with plenty of room for hands, so hopefully Bilbo could keep the attention higher up...

“It means ‘treasure of all treasures’,” Thorin’s eyes were twinkling now, and Bilbo wondered somewhat desperately if it was out of amusement, or simply affection. Thorin continued, “and that, to me, is you. And our child.” His thumbs rubbed Bilbo’s rounded stomach so sweetly that the hobbit was almost distracted by the loving gesture, his eyes closing serenely as his lips curved.

“Ghivashel,” Bilbo murmured again, and he did not see but rather feel Thorin’s smile, and the tender palm that came up to cup his cheek was warm as he tilted his face into it, and the unexpectedly soft lips--

Bilbo pulled back in surprise, and immediately regretted it. Brief hurt flashed across Thorin’s features, followed swiftly by the impassive neutrality that was a familiar mask. Bilbo fought down the rush of heat that had flowed through his nether regions and the guilt that unfurled in his chest. “Thorin, I--”

“I’m sorry, Bilbo--”

“Wait,” Bilbo lifted himself up on one arm and reached for Thorin, who had started to turn. “Wait, Thorin. I want you to stay.” Thorin’s eyes were wary as he looked over his shoulder, and the hobbit tried to look pleading. “I did not mean to-- to reject you, Thorin, I was simply surprised, and--” and aroused, and not sure I could behave like a proper hobbit, he finished to himself in his head.

“It has been a while since we have lain together,” came Thorin’s gentle reply. “I understand, Bilbo.” A sigh. “I have been very forward and you are not ready—”

Bilbo couldn’t help himself. He smirked. “That’s not quite it.” The innocent, confused look on his dwarf’s face made his mind. “Come here, Thorin. Please.”

Thorin did as he asked, sinking back onto the mattress, and Bilbo marveled at his form, solid and strong, not as intimidating as it once had been but still large and formidable, and, the hobbit had to admit, majestic. Bilbo reached out his hand to intertwine his fingers with Thorin’s, laying his head comfortably back down as he smiled. Thorin’s features betrayed his usual serious, but now with the more recognizable gentleness and even-- love-- when he looked at Bilbo.

“Thank you for staying with me last night. And this morning,” the hobbit shyly added as his ears and cheeks suddenly felt the warmth of his blush. “I have been missing… being alone with you.”

“As have I, Bilbo,” came the soft, low reply. “I should like to do this again.” I wish to do this again, if you’ll let me, Thorin had said after their first time making love. Bilbo’s blush deepend, and he nodded before realizing that Thorin had kept speaking. “I am glad I could be here when you woke. Unfortunately, I will have to leave rather soon; Oin has said that Kili is well enough to return to his duties, and I must be there to help him.”

“Oh, of course! I hadn’t realized it was so late,” Bilbo said, glancing back towards the open window. Between the much-filtered natural light he usually got in the mountain halls, and the passing of winter into early spring, his internal time-keeping was all off. “I do want you to be there for Kili. Is Fili not ready yet?”

Thorin had turned, sitting on the edge of the bed to dress, as he had stripped down to his shirt the previous night, and Bilbo wasn’t sure if he saw his shoulders tense or not. “No, he isn’t.” Thorin stood, turning back to look at Bilbo. “Shall I leave you to rest, or would you like to share breakfast?”

The speed with which Bilbo, seven months pregnant and still a little sleepy, sprang out of bed surprised even him.

***

He was just over seven months pregnant now-- this would be the end for a normal hobbit pregnancy, though Bilbo had to admit that with his smaller size, he was hoping that the babe was favoring the slower growth of dwarves and would stay inside a little longer. He mentioned as much to Thorin over their breakfast of leftover bread, meat, and tomatoes from the previous night’s supper. Bilbo felt himself grow shy as he referred to his size to Thorin, whose own cheeks pinkened.

“Dis, my sister,” he clarified, before clearing his throat, “she carried both boys near to full term. Kili was a little early, actually-- about a month. It is my understanding that many dwarf women have difficult pregnancies, and deliver early, due to-- stress-- and this can be dangerous for both mother--” he paused, looking helplessly at Bilbo from where he sat at the adjacent side of the table “-- and the babe. Dis said that she felt smaller when she was having Kili, and he was also smaller at birth, but grew to be healthy and hale.”

Bilbo looked down at his nearly-empty plate, mopping up the juices from the tomatoes with the rest of his bread. “Well,” he started, “I’ve had an easy time of it so far, like a normal hobbit term. Hobbit bearers work outside and tend their houses and take care of their families right up to the end and very rarely experience any problems, unless in the case of a serious accident. Hobbits are made to procreate, and endure.”

Thorin nodded, still looking shy. He let out a quick breath and asked, “And how… are the… births?”

Bilbo blushed, feeling his entire face and neck turn warm.”Well,” he started slowly, focusing hard on the small bit of crust on his plate, “I’m not actually sure. I image they’re similar to dwarves… I never attended one back home. Usually family are invited, but…” he paused. “I was an only child. I didn’t have a chance to watch the birth of any siblings, or their children. I was-- rather isolated, by hobbit standards.” He looked up to see Thorin looking at him, sadness awash over his features, and shook his head. “I was fine. I was managing. But for all the comforts of home, and for all my vast extended family, I never really had the close relationships that-- that I do now.” He smiled at the dwarf in front of him. “Gandalf was right. I needed to have an adventure.”

Thorin returned his grin then, and Bilbo’s heart fluttered wonderfully. He reached his hand out across the table, and the dwarf took it. It was a lovely moment, and then—

“I must go, Bilbo, it’s Kili’s…”

“First day, yes of course. No, don’t worry about the dishes, I can manage. Would you,” he took a breath, “would you like to come back, tonight?”

Thorin nodded, standing. “I would like that very much, Bilbo. Thank you. And thank you for breakfast.”

“It’s my pleasure.” They smiled again, and Bilbo watched as Thorin made his way to the door. The raven-haired king opened the heavy stone door, and turned to smile and bow deeply at Bilbo, before leaving the room. The hobbit savoured the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest for a few moments before rising slowly to clear away breakfast. It was an easy task; his kitchen was spacious and comfortable, much like the rest of his rooms. Bilbo wandered through them, marveling at how at-home he already felt. His things from his old room with Thorin had been brought over at some point, and to keep himself occupied, he ended up sitting on his sofa, as close to the door to his new garden as possible. With sunlight finally streaming down on him again, the hobbit picked up a knitted baby's sock he had started the other day, humming as he worked. As he did, the idea struck him-- if Kili was to be at Thorin’s side most of the day, that would leave Fili alone to his exercises, and to his own thoughts.

Bilbo frowned. He suspected that neither brother would be totally thrilled with the separation; Kili had trouble remaining serious without Fili’s direction, and Fili… well, as modest and easygoing as the dwarf was, being left out of the first day of duties as Prince Under the Mountain, Future King of Erebor due to his injuries must hurt. And much as Bilbo did not want to intrude, he would rather give Fili the option of his company than be left by himself. That settled it. He would bring Fili lunch, and if he also managed to get him to talk, well, that would be two birds with one stone.

Chapter Text

It did not take long for Bilbo to dress, gather enough food for a decent lunch, and make his way down the hall to see Fili in the dwarf’s new rooms. Kili had mentioned that their rooms had been fitted with various mechanisms with which Fili could practice walking. The younger dwarf had described belt-like straps for support, and beams Fili could hold on to, but Bilbo had trouble picturing it until he had knocked on the door and been told to enter.

It was dark. There Fili stood, nearly as tall as Thorin himself, though not quite as broad, and with an expression of intense determination mixed with pain. It took the hobbit a moment to realize that Fili was holding himself up with his arms, both locked underneath him as if he were a barn to be raised, or the Party Tent back in the Shire. His golden hair, even lighter than Bilbo’s own, glinted pale in the light of the fireplace, as did the sweat of exertion on his brow. The fire gave off the only light in the room, in fact, for the torches were dimmed, and heavy curtains were drawn over the small, high windows typical of private living chambers. It was nearly midday, but it may well have been a cold evening for all the late winter sun shone in.

Bilbo paused, unsure of what he should say or do, and Fili remained immobile but for the shivering in his arms from the effort of holding himself up. The hobbit cleared his throat, then flashed a brief smile, turning to put the food down on a nearby table. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, Fili,” he paused, puttering about with the food needlessly as he heard the young dwarf start to move. Bilbo realized that the other might wish not to be watched as he attempted to return to his chair, so he started laying out all the lunch items. “But it’s nearly time for lunch, and hobbits much prefer to share a meal with company--”

“Bilbo,” a deep, rough voice murmured behind him, almost croaking with disuse. “It’s okay. Thank you for coming to see me.” Bilbo turned to look at Fili, who was now sitting in that chair fitted with wagon wheels, leaning back wearily. Bilbo gave him another smile, this one more relaxed, and motioned towards the curtains.

“Do you mind if I let some light in, Fili? The sun is trying very hard to prepare us for spring soon.”

Fili glanced over at where the windows were, a surprised look on his face. “Oh, yes, of course. I’d forgotten they were closed-- well. You can just pull the ropes, they’ll open.”

As Bilbo did so, Fili used his hands to maneuver his chair on its wheels over to the table, positioning himself at a chairless side. Fili looked better in the sun, still pale and winded, but less ghostly, and as he blinked at the new light filling the room, it struck Bilbo that Fili was still quite young. Kili’s youth was always more obvious, seemingly part of his boisterous personality, and Ori, too, seemed to embody his age in is shyness. At merely a few years older than his brother, however, Fili seemed older that he really was.

“So,” the dwarf started, interrupting his thoughts and reaching for the cold sausages that remained in the basket. “How do you like our mountain?”

“Quite grand,” replied Bilbo. “Much finer than even any house in the Shire, even the Great Smials or Brandy Hall-- those were the great family homes of the Tooks, my mother’s family, and the Brandybucks. I don’t hail from them, rather more connected by marriage, through a couple-- well, quite a few-- of my cousins--”

“What’s a “smee-all”? Fili interrupted, and Bilbo smiled.

“That our term for our homes, the kind dug out in the ground. I don’t know how much of the Shire you saw, but a fair amount of hobbits nowadays live in houses like Men, even outside of Bree. Anyway,” he paused, arranging his sandwich contents to his liking, “it’s a bit of a relief to be in the Mountain. It’s like sleeping in Bad End again, if Bag End were very large and full of dwarves.” He winked at Fili, who gave a small grin in return. “Sleeping under the stars on our journey was nice, but the mountain is a sure improvement from Dale.”

They chewed in silence for a while, and when Fili spoke again, Bilbo noticed his frown. “I don’t like the thought of you living in Dale, all by yourself. If Kili and I had known--” he stopped, shaking his head. “I understand why you stayed away, Bilbo. You were afraid you couldn’t trust us, and afraid for your child. I’m sorry for that.”

“It wasn’t just that,” the hobbit murmured, a free hand sliding to wrap protectively around his swelling middle. “I couldn’t stand to be in the mountain as the Thief of Erebor, and you and Kili and Thorin injured and--” He blinked back tears, yet again cursing his thinning control over his emotions. “If I had reached Ravenhill sooner, I--”

“No.” Bilbo looked up, but Fili gazed resolutely at his half-eaten sandwich. The young dwarf furrowed his brow, breathing deeply. “No. It’s not your fault. You came to warn us. My… my injury isn’t your fault.”

“Fili,” Bilbo started, setting down his sandwich to pat the blond’s arm. “It isn’t your fault either. It was a trap.” Fili’s jaw tightened, and then relaxed with his shoulders.

“No,” he admitted. “I know that. And it isn’t Oin’s fault that he can’t help me more, or the elves’. It’s not Kili’s fault that he can walk and I-- can’t, though I see the guilt in his eyes when he looks at me. And it’s-- it’s not Thorin’s fault.” He paused, and Bilbo could think of nothing to say, so he waited.

“I know it’s not Uncle’s fault, but I-- I sometimes wish Kili and I had stayed home. Erebor doesn’t need a prince who can neither walk nor fight for his people. If I hadn’t been so foolhardy as to follow Thorin, I would not now be a... burden on my family.”

“A burden?” Bilbo could feel his face turning red with shocked anger, and he stood quickly, hands on the table as he looked at the dwarf across from him. “Now you listen here, young prince. I may not be a dwarf, but where I come from, a bright lad like you who has worked so hard to protect his family and friends would be the farthest thing from a burden. You are neither lazy nor helpless, Fili, and you have done more for your family and Erebor and Thorin than most dwarves will have the opportunity for now, thanks to you. Any ignorant fool who states otherwise will have to come through ME! Including you,” Bilbo huffed, and Fili, eyes wide, reached out to steady him as he sat down.

“A burden indeed! If a Baggins from the Shire can be of aid to the Dwarves of Erebor-- and I was scared out of my wits through the entire journey, you’ll recall-- and eventually no longer be a burden, then surely a kind, intelligent, brave dwarf like yourself can still do any number of incredibly important tasks--”

“Bilbo,” Fili interrupted him finally, “it’s okay.” He gave a low half-chuckle, and the sound helped the hobbit to mellow out. “I’m sorry for my frustration and despair. It’s only that it’s taking so long for me to walk, and I fear that I will not live up to everyone’s expectations, especially Uncle’s… But I don’t want you to get worked up,” he added quickly, seeing the hobbit’s frown, “it’s not good for your babe.”

At this, Bilbo did sit back, hands sliding around his protected child out of habit. He knew that most dwarves had very little experience with pregnancy, especially pregnancies which were healthy and free of problems or threats. Still… “I’m alright, Fili. In fact, your cousin quite agrees with me, from the feel of it. Would you like to feel--” he paused, suddenly remembering Fili’s bitter words after his fall a few weeks before. Would Fili resent Bilbo’s child, see him or her as his replacement?

But Fili was nodding and shyly reaching out, and Bilbo shifted forward so he was facing the dwarf for easier access. A warm, solid hand gently curled around the hobbit’s midsection, and the babe inside gave an obliging kick towards it. This time, Fili’s laugh was genuine and full.

“He’s a strong one! I remember when Amad was carrying Kili,” blue eyes flashed up towards Bilbo, unusually joyful, “and he felt just like that. Strong and full of spirit, and he’d kick all at once, she said, and tire himself out.”

Bilbo hummed, thumb stroking the other side of his belly. “He or she does feel rather strong. I imagine they will take after their Durin relatives-- hardy and stubborn, the lot of you.” He returned Fili’s smile, adding, “but strong and persevering just the same. Don’t lose hope, Fili.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo had spent the rest of that afternoon puttering around his new home, exploring how much space he had now-- Fili had mentioned yesterday that these rooms were his, separate from Thorin’s, for his comfort and privacy, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that, but also had not had the time or presence of mind to ask in the chaos of the past day and a half. Not for the first time, he wondered how he would stand in this kingdom of dwarves-- as the close friend of the King? Would their relationship-- if it continued to develop-- be accepted? How would the dwarves, already so secretive, so protective of their culture (and rightly so, Bilbo thought), view his child, let alone a hobbit of the Shire? Would he and Thorin remain in separate bedrooms out concern for politics, or another reason?

As Bilbo arranged his kitchen just how he liked it (and nibbled here and there on the generous stock that Bombur had supplied him with-- he was eating for two, after all), he decided he would have to learn more about dwarven culture. Of course he wasn’t at all concerned that his and Thorin’s child wouldn’t be accepted by the company-- his friends had made it perfectly clear that this babe would be not only well-looked after, but spoiled as well. But what of other dwarves that were returning to the mountain? What of Thorin’s sister? Bilbo had never been a parent before, let alone learned dwarven parenting customs. It certainly wouldn’t do to somehow put the child of the King at a disadvantage…

A knock at the door brought Bilbo out of his thoughts and into the entryway, where he pulled open the deceptively light stone door (bless the dwarven engineering) to see Bofur’s cheerful expression. A series of light kicks in his belly let him know that the baby could sense his happiness, and he grinned.

“Bofur! Just the dwarf I wanted to see,” Bilbo bobbed his head as a reply to his friend’s bow. “Come in, come in, what would you like to eat? You’re just in time for tea. But I’d love to stretch my legs,” he added, peering past his friend and down the hall. “Do you mind if we take a picnic?”

Bofur merely grinned as Bilbo padded around, swaying slightly off-balance, and handed him the newly-filled basket.

“So,” the hobbit started as they left the wing of living quarters for the company. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Well the work in the mines has been goin’ fair well so far, so next week we’ll be starting to clear some of the worse sections. But we finished early today, so I thought I’d pop over and see if you wanted some company. But ye said you wanted to see me?”

“Oh! Yes, silly me, I’d forgotten— I seem to lose track of things today. I want to learn more about dwarven culture. If I am to live amongst dwarves, and raise a child who is part-dwarf, I had better learn your customs.”

Bofur nodded, his face thoughtful. “Aye, dwarves are different from the other folk in Middle Earth, that’s certain. We tend to be right secretive with strangers. It’s caused a fair amount of grief in my travels as a merchant. But what does Thorin say? Surely he and Balin could learn you our ways properly-- better than I can at least. I’ve no experience with royalty and politics.”

“Well, yes, I had thought of them, too. I will have to learn all of that, but as Hobbits have very little mind for governing and politics-- few elected positions, and scarcely any interaction with other races-- I’m a bit nervous to start with that. Besides,” he flashed his friend a grin. “You can offer me special insight.”

“Can I now?” Bofur’s eyes twinkled, accepting the good-natured flattery as they rounded the corner and entered the corridor towards the main entry hall.

Bilbo nodded. “Hobbits are simple folk. We craft with wood and cloth, we bake and we cook, we brew ales, and a few of us even have our letters. We work with the earth to grow food and build our homes. But we-- I-- know very little about mountains and stones and metals. I want you to show me the mines.”

This time, Bilbo’s grin was not met with its twin on his friend’s face, in fact, he had never seen Bofur look so nervous. “Bilbo,” the dwarf sputtered, then stopped walking. A hand rubbed over chestnut whiskers. “Ye can’t go into the mines!”

“I-- what?” This was not the enthusiasm he had been expecting. Bilbo stopped short as well. “Of course I can, Bofur, I won’t break anything, I’m not some young buck-- I know mining is important but if I’m to learn-- And you know all about mining--”

“Bilbo, pregnant dwarrows don’t enter the mines!”

“They-- whyever not? Goodness me, I should think after fighting a dragon--” he turned to continue walking, but Bofur’s large hand settled on his shoulder.

“Laddie, the mines are dangerous, too dangerous for someone who doesn’t know them, who’s with child--”

“I was pregnant when I fought Smaug!” Bilbo’s arms were now crossed over his chest, pushed slightly up by the bulge of his stomach, and distantly he realized that this made him seem younger and even more ridiculous than he sounded, but he wasn’t about to give in just yet.

Bofur winced and dropped his hand, it coming to rest next to the other on the handle of the basket. “Bilbo,” he tried gently. “It’s not you. The mines were wrecked when Smaug captured Erebor. There’s rubble everywhere, whole tunnels have collapsed, and others could at any moment. Most of the rails have fallen off. They’d be dangerous even if they weren’t destroyed, just from years of disuse. And if Thorin found out I brought you there…”

Just as quickly as his foul mood had come, it dissipated at the earnest look from his friend. Bilbo’s shoulders sagged, and his hands came to rest protectively around his bump. Of course Bofur was only trying to protect him and the baby, and of course he shouldn’t go in the mines. Of course he should wait for Thorin, too. And here he was, throwing a fit.

“Oh Bofur, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” Shame flooded his chest, settling heavily in his stomach, and he fought the sudden ridiculous feeling of weepiness.

“Hey now,” Bofur smiled at him. “Not to worry. Ye didn’t know. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a mine before, apart from those goblin tunnels.”

“No, I haven’t,” Bilbo sniffed. “And I didn’t exactly see much of those anyway.”

“I’ll give ye the grand tour once they’re safe. In the meantime, let’s find a place to eat! And any I’ll try to answer any questions ye have.”

Though he felt a bit foolish for getting riled up, Bilbo was thankful for the dwarf’s easy-going attitude. Bofur turned and led him gently down green marbled hallways, chatting about the dwarven tradition of mining and working with the treasures they found in the earth. As they sat in a naturally-lit inner courtyard to eat, Bilbo learned about mine shafts and carts, digging the mines, reinforcing them, how to spot precious materials, how young dwarves learned these various skills through mentorships and practice. He smiled when Bofur described his first time finding something valuable— gold, where no one had thought there might be.

The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds just in time for what Shirefolk called Golden Hour, illuminating the green veins in the walls. The hobbit’s eyelids felt heavy, and he reclined against his seat, somehow comfier than he thought stone should be. The babe shifted within him, seemingly satisfied by the meal. The descriptions of different mine configurations washed over him in his friend’s low voice, and he thought that, after such a wild adventure, finding such friends and loves and a home seemed awfully close to striking gold.

Chapter Text

The next two or so days passed uneventfully. Bilbo puttered around his new home, sometimes baking treats for supper, sometimes knitting or sewing baby clothes using cloth that Ori brought to him. Apparently, his eldest brother Dori was to serve as a custodian of sorts-- Bilbo could not remember the word, as it had been in Khuzdul and difficult to pronounce-- though Ori had corrected him that the term actually carried much more prestige. Dori was in charge of looking over domestic arrangements and materials for the royal family, and the court, of which the entire company was now a part. Ori was training to serve as an official scribe.

“Perhaps,” he had added, shyly, “even the Official Scribe, someday.” He then grinned at Bilbo over their knitting and went back to explaining the various members of the government in Dwarvish kingdoms, adding in words in Khuzdul and patiently waiting as Bilbo tried them on his tongue. Biblo was rather surprised at how quickly he managed to pick up certain words or phrases, despite the harsh sounds and his difficulty in repeating some of the words. He stumbled over the cadence of the language, but found that he was starting to understand when the dwarves spoke in their tongue to him. Maybe someday he would learn other languages, too, and not have to rely on the common Westron in his travels… the languages of the elves were particularly beautiful…

“-- and I’m not sure, but-- Bilbo?”

The hobbit jumped, dropping his needles to the floor. “Sorry,” he blushed, attempting to reach them from around his protruding belly. Ori chuckled and scooped them up, depositing the future blanket in Bilbo’s hands. “I don’t know where my mind goes these days… It’s all so new here, and I worry about fitting in, especially once all your families arrive from the Blue Mountains. I worry that I’ll make a mistake, or that I-- we-- won’t be accepted…” and what would I even be accepted as? The King’s consort? A Burglar?

Ori gave him a sympathetic look and patted his shoulder gently. “Talk to Thorin. He’ll know more about what you should do in public. And he’ll make everyone be nice to you! And we’ll protect you, too,” he smiled. “Just be yourself.”

***

But Bilbo was finding it more and more difficult to just be himself. For one thing, he wasn’t just himself any longer-- the babe was constantly moving these days, and the hobbit found it quite hard to concentrate (or keep his balance). At Bag End, in the Shire, Bilbo knew exactly who he was. He knew his place. He was a gentlehobbit of some means, reading and walking and gardening and going to the market and imagining the world from the comfort of his armchair. Going on the journey had been a big step, but he had discovered a part of himself-- a deeply buried, Tookish part of himself-- that was thrilled and even comfortable facing danger and exploring new places. Navigating domesticity in a dwarvish kingdom and a tentative romance with its king, however, required some getting used to. Bilbo fretted, even during mealtimes.

It was therefore after dinner one night at the end of February that Thorin took him aside once the rest of the Company had gone. This surprised Bilbo, for the past few weeks had been very busy for Thorin, and he had left after supper or even missed it entirely due to the duties of the throne. Bilbo had been disappointed, quietly, and chastised himself for it-- Thorin was working hard to prepare for his people to return. Of course he must attend to those matters… even if he had said he would like to spend more nights together…

“Ghivashel,” Thorin spoke softly, leading Bilbo to the sofa nearest the hearth. “How are you? You seem tired, or distracted.”

Bilbo shrugged as he settled back. “I’m quite alright. A bit tired, maybe. And my mind wanders a lot these days.” He slid a hand to his belly and shyly pulled Thorin’s up to join it, covering the dwarf’s larger fingers with his own. “Thorin, I must ask you--” he stopped.

“Anything, melekun,” Thorin replied. When Bilbo hesitated still, the dwarf reached out, hesitantly, to brush his knuckles over the Bilbo’s cheeks. Bilbo’s eyes closed halfway at the warm, gentle touch. He had been meaning to ask how he should act when the dwarves of Erebor arrive, what duties he might have, what role he would play, but these thoughts wandered from his mind as he look into the dark eyes of the father of his child.

“Thorin, I-- what--” Eyes closed, he took a breath and tried again. The other’s hands were still warm on his face and stomach. “What are we, to each other?”

There was a pause, and the hands were removed. Bilbo squinted his eyes further shut; he had not expected Thorin to withdraw. “It’s only that I want to know my place in your kingdom…” he started in a rush. “I know our suites connect, which is useful for us to raise our child together, but I had thought-- I had hoped that-- that we might-- be more--”

“My dear Bilbo.”

His eyes opened. Thorin had left the sofa and was kneeling on the floor before him, hands on the cushion on either side of him. Bilbo felt himself blush, but Thorin did not look angry. In fact, the dwarf was smiling at him, looking slightly sheepish but with a soft expression in his eyes.

“Bilbo,” Thorin started again, eyes locked with the hobbit’s. “You are a treasure to me. You have saved my life and those of my kin many times. You have saved my kingdom for me. You have been a dear and true friend, and a lover, and now you are the mother of my child-- a child I never dreamed to be so lucky to have. Dwarves love only once, Bilbo, if they are lucky, and I did not expect to be counted among the lucky.” He paused, glancing down as a hand slid into his pocket. Bilbo waited, spellbound, for Thorin’s eyes to return to his.

“You are all of these things to me, Bilbo, melekun, but I will ask just this more of you. I would ask you to be my royal consort. I ask you to marry me.”

The hobbit couldn’t help it: he actually swooned, overcome as he was with emotion. “Thorin--”

“I mean to court you, officially, Bilbo-- through the proper stages of dwarven courtship. And I want to give you what hobbits require, as well, and follow any customs you desire. You need not answer now, but when-- if you accept…” He held out his large hand, and in it was a bead, golden, inlaid with small, gleaming green gems. “This is for you. I’m sorry it isn’t much-- I haven’t had much time to work on it. It is why I have been busy in the evenings.” He looked back up at Bilbo. “Will you wear it, Bilbo? Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” the hobbit whispered, then cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, Thorin. I will marry you. Yes!”

Thorin’s smile was huge, and Bilbo imagined his own face was quite a match. He launched himself at Thorin, and the dwarf laughed, catching him up in a kiss. It felt like the first one in ages, though they had shared that careful kiss that morning a few weeks earlier: this one was different. Thorin was the first to pull back, though his arms remained wrapped about his lover.

“Are you happy, Bilbo?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I-- I missed you, Thorin. I was afraid that, after everything, your feelings had changed…”

“Never,” the dwarf broke in. “I have loved you, melekun, even when we were apart. I’m sorry to have given you that impression. But you are the most important thing to me, my treasure. I do love you.”

“I love you too, Thorin. I have loved you, and it would be an honor to love you forever.”

Thorin smiled again, pressing his lips to Bilbo’s hair, and showed him the hair bead again. “May I?”

Bilbo nodded and shifted slightly so that Thorin could work the bead into his hair. He felt the twisting of different locks, and realized that the bead would secure a small braid behind his ear. He smiled, hands settling on his stomach. Feeling Thorin’s strong hands running over his scalp was soothing and intimate in a way he had not expected, as was sitting on his lap.

“There,” Thorin’s deep rumble was accompanied by a soft pat on his new braid, and Bilbo reached up to feel it, smiling as he turned back to face his future husband.

“It’s wonderful. Thank you, Thorin. I mean it,” he added seriously. “I love you.”

The dwarf grinned again, leaning in close to nuzzle against Bilbo’s cheek. “As I love you,” he whispered, gathering the hobbit in for another kiss.

This kiss was even deeper, and Bilbo felt himself flush, not from their proximity to the fire, but from how passionately Thorin was moving against him. He was still situated in the dwarf’s lap, but as he leaned further into the kiss, Thorin laid back, cushioned by one of the fur rugs adorning the floor. Bilbo shifted to lay next to him as he could no longer lay on his stomach, their lips barely breaking. Thorin’s arm wrapped underneath Bilbo to prop them both up, his hand resting on the small of Bilbo’s back, and the other hand caressed his face. Bilbo’s own hands framed Thorin’s cheeks, but moved down to his shoulders and chest as he pressed his lips against his lover’s face.

The intimacy and rush of emotions tied with his new hormones were too much for Bilbo, and he realized too late that he was already embarrassingly hard. It perhaps wasn’t proper, but his pregnant (and to be fair, love-starved) body was uninterested in taking things slow. The hobbit shifted, trying in vain to keep from exciting himself further or alerting Thorin. It didn’t work.

“Are you uncomfortable, my love?” Thorin sat up slightly, pulling Bilbo up with a concerned expression on his face. “Forgive my excitement, it’s been so long and I missed you, but I shouldn’t trouble you in your condition--”

Bilbo chuckled around his ragged breathing. “My foremost condition right now,” he started, throwing proper manners to the wind, “is this.” He grabbed Thorin’s hand and pulled it below his belly, watching in amusement as the dwarf’s eyes shot wide open, and then grew hungry. The look was too much, and Bilbo, to the best of his ability, squirmed under Thorin’s touch.

“Bilbo--” Thorin’s whisper was hoarse. “I want-- but is it safe?”

“It’s perfectly safe. Hobbits do it all the time. But it’ll be safe if we-- you know,” he stopped, exaggerating his thoughtful pause. “This will be the first time we’ve done it in a bed?”

It was impressive how swiftly Thorin managed to scoop him off and hurry towards his bedroom, Bilbo thought. Very impressive.