Chapter Text
Bofur slunk through the corridors of Erebor, moving as quickly and quietly as he could. Thorin should still be tied up in negotiations with the Dale men, but best to be safe not sorry.
He slipped into the royal chambers, closing the door quietly behind him. There was ample time to wash away the evidence of his illicit activities. Thorin must never know.
“Hello Bofur.”
“Thorin,” he attempted in a bright voice. “Negotiations finished early?”
Thorin ignored this sally, stalking forward to loom over him. “I know what you’ve been doing,” he whispered.
“Doing?” Bofur essayed, attempting innocence, heart sinking.
Thorin kissed him, hard and fast, almost brutal, then wrenched himself away, his hand flying to his lips.
“You taste of—“
Voice wholly suspended, Thorin turned away, gripping a chair, his knuckles white against the dark fabric.
“Thorin,” Bofur tried. “Let me explain—“
“Explain,” Thorin echoed in a choked voice. “There’s nothing to explain. I know what you did.”
Bofur’s face crumpled and he hung his head. “I’m sorry, Thorin. Forgive me?”
“Sorry,” said Thorin. “You’re sorry.” He whirled around, hair fanning majestically, anger sparking from his gaze.
“Bofur,” he thundered, “you’ve been bloody stealing my raspberry ice-cream!”