Chapter Text
Once in their room, Thorin gently set Bilbo down on the bed, taking care to tuck the thick wool blankets up to his chin. The bed was rather too big for the both of them, being designed by and for men, but this simply allowed them to bundle up in the blankets as much as they wished.
Thorin, upon noticing the faint glistening around the rims of Bilbo’s raw, reddened nostrils, took out a handkerchief from his pocket, folding it twice and ever so gently using the corner to wipe away the thick moisture pooling around his septum.
He tucked the cloth into the burglar’s shirt pocket for later use, knowing his nose was hardly at its worst point, then rummaged through his leather satchel in search of herbs. Oín was typically the one to carry these, but since Thorin had started traveling more independently, he had thought it best to carry basic healing equipment.
He took out a small sack of turmeric, as well as a vial of honey, which he mixed in a mortal and pestle he had brought before scooping the small amount of viscous liquid into a wooden spoon. He held the spoon to Bilbo’s lips—slightly parted to breathe—and rubbed it along his bottom lip to coax him awake just enough.
“Drink up, ghivashel,” Thorin murmured. “I’ve made you medicine. Traditionally, it’s mixed into tea rather than taken straight, but I wish to ease the sting of your throat as soon as I may. I do hope the flavors of the honey remind you of home. I purchased it during our last visit to the Shire. You know Sam’s raising bees now?” Though he was unsure of how much Bilbo was truly hearing, Thorin talked anyway, for the silence of the room unsettled him. He’d never seen his lover so quiet.
Bilbo weakly opened his mouth, and Thorin slipped the spoon past his lips as he supported the back of his head. The halfling pressed his eyes shut in surprise at the sweet taste, but soon relaxed as the honey coated his raw throat.
“That’s it, gimlelul… Just rest up and let your body fight the illness, hmm?” Thorin crooned, his gaze softening as he realized just how exhausted and sick Bilbo was feeling. A warm surge of protectiveness pulsed through his chest, his heart very nearly aching at the thought of his love being anything but well and safe.
This, is fact, was not an uncommon feeling to the dwarven kind. Dwarves as a whole were fierce guardians of all they held dear, not solely gold and gems. Thorin shrugged off his fur cloak and insisted gingerly tucked it over Bilbo’s shivering form. He placed a soft kiss to the very tip of his rosy nose—noting with a fond smile the way it twitched at the contact like a bunny’s would.
He pulled up a large wooden chair to his love’s bedside, settling into it with a watchful eye. He’d stay awake all the way through springtime if it meant ensuring Bilbo was looked after. Thorin tried to pay no mind to his aching knees, and burning, tingling ankle, and the way his shoulder shifted and clicked painfully in and out of the socket at the slightest movement. He refused to sit anywhere other than the wooden chair, even at the expense of his own pain, for he feared the jostling as he moved onto the bed would be enough to wake the ill halfling.
He felt a pang of guilt in his chest at the idea that he should even consider making his discomfort a priority. Bilbo was far more important in his mind, even if his condition wasn’t worsening as his own was.