Chapter Text
Perhaps it was because they had spent so long in one another's pockets, but since finding their freedom, Bilbo had not been able to be out of Thorin's company for any meaningful length of time. It seemed that, whenever he wasn't sleeping, he found himself gravitating towards Thorin's side. It was inexorable, like a compass pointing the way home, and he could not bring himself to question it.
Once, he might have tried to play coy, but it was as if all such trivial things had been peeled aside, leaving only what was raw and honest. If Thorin had been anything but welcoming, he would have endeavoured to hide his eagerness, but Bilbo did not miss the way Thorin's eyes brightened and his smile curved higher whenever he stepped into the room.
They gravitated towards each other, sharing quiet words and quick confidences as if they had been friends all their lives. Except, beneath that, there was an undercurrent of something more: deep and hot and drenched in longing.
More than once, Bilbo almost spoke up, right there in front of the Company with all the mountain to bear witness, but each time something gave him pause. Maybe life in the Shire had made him more cautious than he would like to admit, but he could feel his nerve slipping away with each passing day. If he was not careful, what he and Thorin had would be fixed in the foundation of friendship. By no means was that a bad thing, but he would be lying if he said he would be content with that and nothing more.
That was why he was here, in his bedchamber, fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat. Two others lay on the bed behind him, discarded as either too travel-worn or too stuffy. This, the third, was a soft, dark green, with subtle stitch-work here and there to add emphasis. It was not Shire-cut, that much would be clear to any hobbit that glanced his way, but Bilbo found he preferred the slightly deeper collar and the angle at which it rested on his hips. Cleverly, it made him appear a little taller than his actual height. In his mind, at least, it gave him presence.
He wanted to look his best. That was why he was here, preening in front of the mirror like a tween who thought too much of themselves. His hair, both on his head and the tops of his feet, was freshly combed, gleaming russet and gold in the candlelight. His skin carried a healthy glow now that the last edge of the illness had ebbed, and there was a hint of a flush to his cheeks: excitement and exhilaration, tempered at their edges by just a tiny trace of fear.
He had never put in this much effort in for any of the hobbits back in the Shire, but then, his youthful infatuations had not felt the same. They had been whirlwinds of emotion, quick to rise and swifter still to fall away. The thrumming in his heart was nothing like that. It was, instead, a steady oak that had grown unheeded and now stood strong.
That was why he had to speak of it. To hold his silence would be the height of foolishness, and he liked to think he was not that much of Took.
With a final tug of his waistcoat, he smoothed his palms down his lapels before giving his reflection a firm nod. His feet pattered across the rugs of his chambers, and he pulled open his door with a flourish, only to stagger back in surprise when he almost collided with Bofur. They blinked at each other before the dwarf let out that gutsy laugh of his and clapped him on the shoulder.
'Almost ended up knocking on your fine face, Master Baggins,' he chortled. 'I've been sent to fetch you. His Majesty's request.'
Bilbo's stomach gave a nervous swoop, and a dozen fears escaped their pens to rush, clamouring, around his head. These past few days, he had grown accustomed to Thorin stopping by his chambers, or he dropping into his. They had become quite comfortable with each other, but now there was an air of formality that made him stumble in his footing.
'Is something wrong?' For one awful moment, he wondered if Thorin had relapsed in his illness, except no. He would not be summoning Bilbo for that, and Bofur would not grin so readily.
'Nothing's amiss,' the dwarf reassured him, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving him a gentle shake. There was pity in that expression, as if he realised Bilbo had suffered one fright too many, this past year or more. 'He has something for you. This way.'
Bofur led him through the mountain, out from the bowels of the forges and upwards. He answered none of Bilbo's questions, offering only delighted laughter at his efforts. It was a bright noise, attracting attention, but Bilbo ignored the stares.
He and Thorin had been seen, out and about, since their recovery, but there had been no official appearance as yet. No feasts to celebrate and no arbitration held in the temporary throne-room. He could not blame the others for their astonishment and curiosity, though he would have thought they would be more concerned for Thorin than himself. After all, he was merely a hobbit of little circumstance.
'They've worried for you,' Bofur murmured. 'And word has spread it was you who saved Thorin's life with your knowledge. They're hailing you as a hero. Again.' He shot a knowing look in Bilbo's direction, no doubt enjoying the sight of him flushing from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair.
There was no use protesting it. The dwarves wouldn't hear any of his excuses about good luck, quick thinking or a way with words. They were not a race in favour of humility, Bilbo had noticed, and they seemed as keen to celebrate him as they did their own triumphs.
'Where are we going?' he managed at last, looking at Bofur in bafflement as he led the way towards the huge doors that stood against the outside world. Beyond that threshold, the road passed over a bridge and carried onwards towards Dale. 'I thought you said Thorin –'
'He's waiting for you,' Bofur promised. 'And it's not far. No need to take a pony ride or anything like that. Just a short walk.' He gave Bilbo a critical look, the first expression on his face yet that belied any concern. 'Are you well enough? It can wait, if you are not.'
'I'm fine.' Bilbo pretended he was not leaning forward like a dog straining at its leash. He could feel the warmth of a summer breeze ghosting through the doors, which stood open to welcome traders and visitors alike. Outside, the sunlight poured over the land like molten honey. The past couple of days, it had been insipid and uncertain. Now, he admired the clear blue vault of the sky and the sun's gentle touch against his face.
Bofur led him across the bridge and then took a right, down one of the smaller paved roadways that wended towards what had once been pastureland. Thorin had plans for it, but as yet, it remained untouched by anything other than long grasses and wildflowers.
Tiny songbirds chattered in the hedgerow, and Bofur held open a gate and pointed straight ahead. 'About a hundred paces that way,' he promised, grinning as Bilbo cast him a suspicious look. He doffed his hat with a jaunty little wave and turned away without any further explanation, leaving him alone.
Something uncertain fizzed in Bilbo's belly. It felt like that morning, back at his Smial, looking at the potential for the greatest adventure in his life and realising he was going to step forward and seize it with both hands. There was that same feeling of breathless exhilaration – of the impossible made real. For all their troubles, he had never truly regretted leaving Hobbiton behind. Now, he found himself facing what felt like another fork in the road, and this time, he did not even hesitate.
The grass whispered against his breeches, the seed heads brushing his hips as he ambled up a steady rise in the land. The earth beneath his toes was good and loamy, rich with sediment washed from the mountain peak and fed, no doubt, by one of the many springs that surged, fresh and clear, to race into the far-off lake. It was truly idyllic, especially considering the nearby industry of both Erebor and Dale. Now, the breeze offered its blessing, gifting his ears nothing but the soft sounds of the wildlife.
Perhaps that was what made the vision before him all the more perfect. He gained the top of the gentle hill and the wavering veils of mystery fell away, setting his heart free to take delicious, dizzy flight. Here, the grass had been flattened by industrious feet, and a thick blanket lay beneath the sun's benediction.
Silver tureens sparkled, their contents hidden from sight, and flowers decked the ground: blue gentian and white breath-of-morning, all alongside the delicate red blooms of crimson trefoil. It was practically a bower, and in the midst of it, Thorin awaited him.
He did not stand on ceremony but lay at ease, the elegant mithril in his hair and beard bright in the sun. Warm blue eyes watched Bilbo, and when he approached, a strong, blunt hand reached out in mute invitation.
Bilbo did not hesitate to take it, and when he reclined, their fingers remained entwined, tentative: saying more than words ever could.
'I remember thinking of this,' he began at last, biting his lip before meeting Thorin's gaze. 'You said, when you were ill – when recovery seemed like an endless road – that you wanted to look upon the open sky again.'
'And you confided a hope for Bombur's roast pheasant,' Thorin agreed with a grin. 'I suspect if you lift the tureens, you will find he has outdone himself.'
A gentle flush warmed Bilbo's cheeks, and his heart fluttered joyful wings beneath his ribs. 'You did this for me?'
Thorin appeared to give it some thought, and when he spoke again, it was not as a king. Instead, he was merely one soul speaking to another. 'I did it for us. Or the hope of us.' His thumb brushed over Bilbo's knuckles, back and forth, the sweeping motion steady and hypnotic. He rolled his head, no longer staring upwards into the endless blue but meeting Bilbo's gaze.
And, oh, he had always known Thorin was brave. How could he not, after all they had been through together? Yet to see him now was to witness a different kind of courage. It had nothing to do with the sword in his hand or the crown that rightfully belonged upon his brow. This was a fortitude that shone through when a heart could no longer be ignored, and Bilbo's own surged upwards, light and dizzy with joy. Yet somehow, he held his silence, watching Thorin's lips within his beard as he continued to speak.
'In the course of our long journey, I came to admire you: your kind heart, your courage and your cunning. Your presence took a quest that many claimed was nothing more than madness and made me believe we could triumph, regardless of the odds that stood against us.'
He drew a shuddering breath, his grip tightening. 'Yet I think what I truly appreciated was not your great deeds, which you accomplished despite your denials, but simply your presence. I looked forward to waking up every morning because I knew you would be there. The same as I rose each day here in Erebor with my throne and people second in my thoughts, because you were the first to fill my mind when I left my dreams. When the Ishrimabî Amrâdu came...'
Bilbo rolled onto his side, the better to give Thorin his full attention. He cared not about the heavenly sky above nor the beaten bronze disc of the sun. The lark could sing until its voice fell still. What mattered was this: the dwarf at his side and the honest emotion that painted his features – recollection of the deepest regret, ushered away by the soft tide of hope's inundation.
'I thought my worst heartache was that I would be leaving you behind with so much unspoken between us.' Thorin raised one eyebrow. 'Then, of course, you stole into my sickroom to die at my side. I wished I could be furious, and instead I could only find gratitude, because it meant I had not seen you for the last time.'
'And now?' Bilbo murmured, leaning closer, the tips of their noses almost touching. He could practically taste the promise on Thorin's lips. Part of him felt he should speak of it – to share the weight of this confession – but Thorin had him mesmerised. He could barely breathe in case he missed another word. Thorin was subtle in his tenderness, even in comparison to other dwarves. In Bilbo's mind, that only made it more precious to be caught in the warmth of his affection.
'Now, I cannot allow my doubts and fears to hold reign. I feared, dreadfully, that once winter had passed you would return to the Shire. When you stayed, I found hope.' Thorin drew in a breath, turning so that they were chest-to chest, both Bilbo's hands captured in Thorin's own. His eyes were the impossible blue of midsummer skies, lit from within, and if Bilbo had not been lost long ago, he would have happily drowned in that moment. 'Will you allow me to court you, Master Baggins?'
A smile swelled Bilbo's cheeks as he rested his brow against Thorin's. 'There is no need,' he murmured, and there was not a word of a lie to his answer. 'My heart's already won, Thorin, and it is yours if you want it.'
The noise that pulsed in Thorin's throat was caught somewhere between a laugh and a soft, intoxicating moan. It curled through Bilbo's body, lighting fires as it went, and the brush of Thorin's thumb against his cheek felt like a blessing from the Valar themselves.
'Are you certain? Be sure, Bilbo. That is all I ask of you,' he murmured, the tip of his nose brushing down the bridge of Bilbo's. 'As I do not know if, once I have you, I will ever have the strength to let you go.'
The devotion that thrummed in Thorin's voice sent a tremulous shiver down his spine, delight making him breathless. It would be all too easy to lose his head along with his heart, and he would be more than happy to do so. Yet he forced himself to do as Thorin asked, to stop and think. Life changed, he knew that as well as anyone else, but when he thought of Thorin and all he had witnessed – his failures and his triumphs, his weaknesses and his strengths – his answer could not be more obvious.
'I've never been more sure of anything.'
Thorin's kiss was warm and soft, beautifully gentle, and Bilbo's heart sang to be treated with such care. It had not been, in the past: left in the hands of those who had not treasured the prize in their grasp. Yet Thorin was not those careless others. His tenderness made itself known in every aspect of his character, and Bilbo was more than happy to have faith.
His fingers curled in Thorin's tunic, clutching at the fabric as he shifted the angle of his head. A flicker of his tongue made Thorin groan and shiver, feverish with want. A broad palm splayed at the base of his spine, urging him close, and Bilbo's toes flexed and curled in delight to feel Thorin hard against him, wanting him with equal fervour. It was heady, delicious, dizzying... He lost himself to the blessing of Thorin's lips and the softness of his beard, that luxurious hair beneath his fingertips and that strong chest pressed against his own.
It felt like a lifetime of waiting had reached its end. As if – at last – Bilbo had found what he had been looking for all along.
This, he realised, was the real adventure. Not the quest that had seen him travel over half of Middle-earth, not the dragon or the battle that followed. Instead, it was a life of Thorin at his side, loving and loved in turn.
There, beneath the benevolence of the midsummer sun, his heart sang its truths to the dwarf who would always know to listen, and who would answer Bilbo's love with his own, sure and true.
And never would it falter.