Chapter Text
Bilbo thinks about it.
He knows he shouldn't. The idea of it alone is nothing less than preposterous. Him, staying in Erebor? No. Certainly not. He has so many responsibilities in The Shire, not to mention his responsibilities to Frodo. He deserves to be raised around other hobbits, in the safety of rolling hills and flourishing gardens. Not in Erebor, with its cold stone and loud dwarrow and gold and.. No. Erebor is everything that The Shire is not. And while that's not necessarily a bad thing, not at all, it wouldn't be proper.
He had forgotten when propriety became a staple in his life again. He knows not the ideal hobbit, not now. He’s far too lonesome and tucked away into Bag End for that. But when he returned, it was much easier to slip back into new habits than to keep his new ones. The Shire is quiet in every sense of the word. It has no use for adventure, or for hobbits who like to mope and talk about such adventures. There's no room for bad manners or thoughts of the world outside of it. Bilbo had comformed like a hammer to heated metal, shaped back into what he once was. More or less, anyway. Sure, he was odd in nature, and there were whispers of how he returned ‘more dwarf than hobbit’, but he was a hobbit still.
Even so. It was even easier to fall back in line with his companions than he would've thought. The thoughts of staying got worse with it.
Falling back in with them was like relearning the steps to a dance you had never truly forgotten. And, he supposed that they were the real reason why he wanted to stay at all. Erebor was lovely, but it wasn't Erebor that made him linger in the mountain, or wish that he didn't have to leave at all. Sometimes, he thought that it wasn't even Thorin that he would stay for. He had forgotten what it felt like to be accepted so easily by others. To not have to perform or act or try to live up to what others wanted him to be. He had lost himself in The Shire, bit by bit. At least the version of himself that they had discovered on their journey. And being here, with people who he hadn't seen in years and yet knew him better than most, felt like coming back into himself. It was much easier to be himself, he was beginning to realize. Which.. maybe shouldn't be such a novel concept to him as it is. It made his heart ache all the more fiercely. Maybe he should've just left when he had the chance. Taken Frodo and rode out under the cover of night. It would've been easier than this.
This, being dinner. With his friends. Which, in all honesty, is going wonderfully. Which is also a problem.
“I did not do that,” Dwalin speaks up gruffly, a frown on his face.
“Yes, you did.” Nori is cutting into a piece of steak, Bilbo’s half afraid that he’s going to snap the plate beneath it in two.
“I didn't ask you, thief.”
“I didn't ask if you asked.”
- Years.
You would think that they would learn how to be a tad bit nicer to each other in that amount of time. Or that they would at least learn to tolerate one another. But no. It seems that Bilbo was asking too much of them. They’re still worse than faunts when it comes to arguing.
The table they sit at is large, with enough seats to gather a small army around it. Much less cramped than their first meeting had been, and with, thankfully, an actual meal to accompany it instead of miscellaneous provisions picked from a pantry.“You certainly did, brother. Scared the poor lass off with nothing more than a look.” Balin chimes in, looking more than a bit amused. “I did not. It was a fine courting gift.”
“The skull of an Orc?” Bilbo asks, blinking slowly.
“Yes.”
He would never understand Dwarven courting.
“..I would've gotten her flowers, or something of the sort. But if you say so.”
“Flowers?” Dwalin sounds almost offended by the notion.
“Hobbit.” Dori reminds him, somewhere off to Bilbo’s right, and the warrior grunts in response.
“Yes, flowers.” He huffs. “They can be very romantic, you know,” He takes a small bite of potato and almost wants to moan. He would need to try to get the recipe from Bombur before he left. “In hobbit culture, flowers can mean all sorts of things. Love, hate, annoyance, joy. Why, you could give someone a bouquet and tell them that you curse their whole family line if you wanted to.”
“Have you?” Ori asks, leaning slightly over the table so that he can meet the hobbit’s eyes. “Cursed someone’s family line?”
“Oh, yes.” He snorts. “Many, many times. You know, hobbits can be quite the annoying bunch when they want to be.”
“We know.” Bofur’s voice is far too gleeful as he says it.
“I should’ve left you in Mirkwood, you know that?” He’s going to say more when the door suddenly swings open, and Thorin enters. Late. Always late. His eyes find Bilbo’s first. And then they drift to the others. He looks.. tired. Very tired. He wishes that he could take that from him- he cuts off that thought line as quickly as it came. He’s been trying to be better about it. He needs to hold Thorin at arm's length if he ever wants to get through these months with some of his sanity intact. “I apologize for my tardiness,” The king says as he takes his seat next to his nephews at the head of the table, who both look less than shocked at his apparent lateness. “The council-”
“Yes, kept you. We know uncle. Busy busy.” Kíli says, waving one of his hands around. “We were talking of Dwalin’s atrocious love life.”
“I-”
“Yes. Very atrocious.” Fíli nods gravely. “I fear at this point, he will never marry, uncle. It's tragic.”
“I’ll show you tragic-”
“At this point? Lad, we've known for years that that lump isn't going to get married anytime soon. Look at him.” Nori smirks, just as Dwalin grabs a knife and stands up, pointing it at him. “Dwalin.” Thorin barks, rubbing at his temples. The warrior continues to glare, but reluctantly sits back down. Bilbo is suddenly very glad that he left Frodo with Glóin’s wife instead of bringing him along. He would rather not frighten the boy to the point of deciding that dwarrow are too scary to be around anymore. He makes a mental note to himself to separate Dwalin and Nori as much as possible if they were ever to stumble upon the faunt at the same time.
“Yuletide is coming up,” Dori interjects (thankfully) and jabs a rough hand into his brother’s side. “Do your kind celebrate it, Master Baggins?”
“Oh! Yes, we do.” He nods, offering him a small smile, before his expression turns somewhat wistful. “We throw a great big party, usually, underneath the celebration tree. With gifts and ale and dancing. When I was younger, my friends and I would steal a barrel of ale and hide in the forest till the festivities ended, and get so drunk off our arses that we slept there on the ground instead of going home.” He says affectionately, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. That was one of the things he remembered most clearly from his youth (for admittedly, he did not think about it very often or very fondly, unless it was about his parents). Getting drunk with friends and having long-winded conversations about nothing.
“See! I knew it, you were always a buglular.”
“That is not what a bugular is, Kíli.”
“Close enough.”
“Then our celebrations line up almost perfectly.” Dori laughs, running a hand over his beard. “Though we don't give gifts. You will be attending the feast?”
“The feast?”
“Oh, it's beautiful, Bilbo,” Ori says, to the agreement of the others around him. Bifur chimes in with.. something. The hobbit doesn't understand a lick of it, but he gets the gist, more or less. “Aye, with lots of singing and dancing and the lights all lit up.” Bofur leans over to translate in Bilbo’s ear, and the hobbit gives him a grateful hum of acknowledgment.
“Well, if I am invited, then I couldn't possibly refuse.”
“You are invited,” Thorin says, their eyes meeting once more. He feels his stomach churn in a pleasant way, which isn't something he’d ever think that he’d say. “You and Frodo.”
“Oh- yes! Frodo would love that. He’s very fond of celebrations. You should see him on our birthday.”
“It's settled then. We’ll have to make this our biggest celebration yet, Fíli smiles widely, slapping a hand over both his uncle’s and his brother’s shoulders. “Oh, really, there's no need for that.” He tries to say, before Kíli moves in to back his brother up and admonish their hobbit lightly. “Of course we do! And, your leg will be all healed up by then, so there will be plenty of time for dancing.” He waggles his eyebrows at him.
“I get to dance with you first, of course.”
“Why you? That hardly seems fair.”
“Because you have Ori.”
“You have Tauriel.”
“I don't think that I'll be doing any sort of dancing anytime soon, boys.” Bilbo shakes his head at them. “Im sure that hobbitish dancing and dwarven dancing are two different things entirely.” Bilbo’s never been very good at dancing. Ever. It seems silly, but it’s never caught his interest. He knows how to, of course, he's a hobbit. But he’s much more content to sit around and eat and talk than anything else. Being swung around, having to be mindful of your partner's feet? No, thank you. He’s sure it would be even harder with dwarven toes as well, what with how small they are, even in those big, ugly death traps they cover them in.
“Can't be that different. You just move your feet all about.” Kíli grumbles, but nods anyway.
Bilbo lets himself only listen to the conversation after that, not really chiming in unless he feels like it would be a hindrance not to.
His thoughts fade to Gandalf. He’s still in this mountain, Bilbo knows it. He got just as snowed in here as Bilbo did. He doesn't know whether to hug him or give him a good knock on the head when he sees him for his… what? Meddling? Scheming? He could have at least warned Bilbo that they were going to get bloody snowed in by the time that they got to the mountain. A simple ‘if I were you, I'd bring something nice and warm to wear’ would have sufficed. Oh, but Bilbo can't bring himself to get too awfully cross with him. Even if he is an old coot who speaks in riddles almost as badly as Elves do (oh dear, he’s starting to sound like Thorin now). He saved Frodo’s life, which counts for.. something. He would've liked to see him at some point, though. Even through his walks of the mountain, which are admittedly limited and never go much further than the library, he’s caught not even a passing glance of a grey pointy hat dodging through corridors.
He only snaps back into reality when his companions start to excuse themselves, and takes one last bite of food before standing up and falling into step with Glóin, giving the remaining company a small smile and wave. “Mind if I walk with you?”
“Never. Going to go get your young’in?” They walk at an almost even pace, though Bilbo has to speed his feet up a bit to make sure that he doesn't lag too far behind. “Yes. It's getting quite late, and I really should be putting him to bed.”
“Ach, I remember when Gimli was that small..”
He lends Glóin an open ear to talk as they walk. He loves talking about his family, and Bilbo’s more than content with listening to him prattle off about his wife and his son. It's all very.. romantic. The fact that, still, even after so many years, he can't stop singing praises about the ‘great love of his life’. He’s heard some of the other dwarrow say before that they can hardly believe why she chose him, as beautiful as she is. But he can see why. To have one that admires you so, whose love is pure and true, is rare. It must’ve been a rather easy choice to make.
He hums along with him until they finally make it to his apartment, and Glóin disappears inside for a moment, only to come out with a sleepy Frodo the next. He smiles when he deposits him in Bilbo’s arms, and Bilbo smiles back.
“Treasure these days, Master Baggins. It only goes downhill from here.” He cautions with a warm chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank your wife for me, please. And have a good rest of your night.”
“Of course. Goodnight, Bilbo.”
He shifts Frodo in his arms as they make the walk back, laughing as the boy’s head lolls against his shoulder. “Did they wear you out, Frodo?” He asks, only to get a garbled whine in response. “Oh, I see. Did all the hard work for me.” Bilbo presses a kiss to his temple, amusement heavy in his voice, though the weight of the day was beginning to catch up with him as well. He’ll be happy to settle down in his bed with a good book and relax. Maybe make himself some tea-
“Hobbits don't belong in mountains.” Bilbo pauses with a frown as a deep, gruff voice calls out to him. He looks up to see a dwarf that he is almost certain he doesn't know standing too close for comfort right in front of him. He jumps in brief surprise, before he steels himself.
“Excuse me?”
“Your kind, don't belong here.” The stranger repeats. He has a long, dark beard, braids woven throughout it in neat rows, though nearly no beads rest in them. His face is.. well, nothing all that special. A bit too gruff-looking for Bilbo’s taste—like Dwalin’s uglier twin brother. Bilbo opens his mouth to speak again, but the man is gone just as quickly as he came, leaving Bilbo standing there in quiet bafflement. He stays there for a moment longer before quickly continuing his walk back, the bitter note in the air leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
What was that?
He doesn’t think that he’s done anything so awful to warrant that kind of response. He’s only been here for a little over a month, for Yavanna’s sake! What, has he spent too much time in the library for that dwarf’s taste? Walked too slowly in the hallways? He had a limp! And either way, he should think that all of that would be excusable, considering that he was the one who helped them get their bloody mountain back with minimal complaints. Well. Maybe a bit more than minimal. Maybe a bit more than a bit. But that didn’t matter! A dragon! He had riddled with a dragon, only for this! Bunch of ungrateful twats-
He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice Thorin until he’s crashing into his chest, nearly dropping Frodo in the process (who whines, but does not wake), before The King’s hands latch onto his elbows and steady him.
“Oh—sweet green lady—pardon me, your highness!” He internally chides himself for getting so distracted by one measly dwarf who had no real pull on his life, other than spitting some unsavory words at him.
“Feeling Clumsy tonight, Master Burglar?” Thorin smiles, though he tries to hide it beneath his beard. He doesn’t remove his hands. His smile fades, though, after a moment, as he sees the less-than-pleased look on Bilbo’s face. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”
The hobbit opens his mouth and then snaps it right back shut.
Maybe he should tell Thorin. It is his kingdom, after all. He should know about any attempts to.. threaten Bilbo? intimidate him? He was awfully vague about it, wasn't he? Whatever that dwarf was attempting to do, Thorin should know about it. But, he also would be an idiot not to acquiesce that Thorin was an old, weirdly overprotective, quick to anger, stubborn bastard (and he said that affectionately, somewhat). He would go on a silly rampage over it, searching for what might’ve been nothing more than Bilbo’s overactive imagination, making a short confession out into something it wasn’t. It wasn’t worth the trouble it would bring. Yes, the king would cause more problems than he would offer solutions. And besides, Bilbo was sure that nothing would come of this passing interaction.
So, instead of going on what would’ve been a long-winded rant (that surely would’ve gone on for quite some time) about rude dwarves and personal space, he shakes his head. “No. Everything fine. Just getting Frodo settled for the night.”
Thorin relaxes back into something more comfortable at that, the harsh lines in between his eyebrows softening out. “Good.”
There’s a long pause as he shifts awkwardly on his feet, not looking all that kingly at the moment. It reminds Bilbo of the adventure, almost. Not that Thoirn was ever really awkward, no. He’s always been too brash for that, ever since he first met him. But this side of him, the one standing in front of him now and looking back and forth between the hobbit and the wall, is weirdly, painfully normal. Not something that you would hear sung about in a ballad, that's for sure.
“I have something to show you.” Thorin blurts out, and Bilbo snorts before he can stop himself, cursing his lackluster self-control when Thorin’s expression turns closed off once more. He’s quick to amend the slip.
“I had thought that I had seen every interesting part of this mountain. Not a lot for a Hobbit to do here, you know.” He says, and the brief tension evaporates.
“Not every part.” Thorin murmurs. “Though you’ve gotten close to seeing everything that would fit a hobbit’s taste.”
“Which is to say nothing at all?”
“More or less. But I think you’ll like what I have to show you.”
“Oh, you have a hunch now, do you?”
“I do. Meet me in the hallway when you're done putting your pebble to bed?”
“Fauntling.” Bilbo corrects absentmindedly, before nodding. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be there. Just.. give me ten minutes or so.”
“Please, take your time.”
It takes longer than he’d like to put Frodo to bed, with the boy deciding to wake up the second they step inside the room. Taking his time indeed. It's a routine that Bilbo has gotten somewhat used to over the years. Slipping the boy into bed and tucking his blankets around him, settling down in bed next to him, and lying over the covers. He whispers in Frodo’s ear, voice carefully quiet so that he doesn't ramp the boy up any, stories that his own mother used to tell him flashing in his mind. That's one thing he and Frodo can relate to nearly completely. Frodo loves listening to Bilbo ramble off about some great tale that's nearly been lost to time, almost as much as Bilbo loves telling it. He wonders if he was the same way when he was young, or if Frodo will be the same way he is now when he’s grown. Probably not, he decides. Hopefully not. Bilbo would have him as happy and... well, perhaps not innocent, but jubilant as he is now. No spiraling thoughts and isolation for his boy. That wouldn't do. He wouldn't let Frodo end up like himself, content in that of his simple life, but lonely and dreadfully stuck in the past like a stick in the mud.
Sometimes, he thinks it's as much of an adventure as any, helping to raise his nephew. For what roaring, fire-breathing dragon could ever dream of living up to one of Frodo’s tantrums? It was much eaiser to deal with Smaug and all of his sly remarks, and all of his fire, and all of his gnashing teeth, than it is trying to convince the boy that no, he cannot eat an entire pie by himself just because he wants to (though perhaps that's just the trick of time, trying to convince him that it wasnt quite as terrifying of an expirence as he once thought. Just a dragon, wasnt it, Master Baggins?). But, at the very least, it is a rewarding one. And a slightly more cleanly one, though not by much. A very, very long, never-ending adventure. Because he would still be taking care of Frodo even if he was on his deathbed, wouldn't he? He would still be trying to round up his clothes and cook for him, even if Bilbo himself was only skin and bones and couldn't move much at all. Perhaps that's the real woe of being a parent. Knowing that you’ll give it your all, knowing that you’ll give when every part of you, and knowing that you’ll never really be able to see the outcome of all that work and time and effort. Just trusting and hoping that it’ll lead to something good, something great.
He doesn't need Frodo to be great. Or even all that good. He only wants him to be happy.
Look at that. Spiraling thoughts. Bilbo needs a journal.
He finally manages to slip out of the bed a half hour or so after getting into it with Frodo, once he’s sure that the boy is dead asleep and that he isn't waking up any time soon. He looks back at him one last time before sneaking away and into the hallway. The scene that greets him is both amusing and slightly annoying. Thorin paces back and forth, an almost frustrated expression on his face. He only stops once he sees Bilbo, suddenly straightening up and tucking his hands behind his back, trying to look like he wasn't sulking just a moment before.
“I didn't think you were coming.” He murmurs.
“You did tell me to take my time.” Bilbo shrugs, lifting a brow at him.
Thorin huffs—though it's nothing much more than a small puff of air escaping his nose. It still comes off awfully snobbish. The hobbit forces himself not to say anything.
“.. Yes. But you said ten minutes. I did not realize just how much time you intended to steal away for yourself.”
“Well then, it's obvious to me that you have not put a youngling to bed in quite some time- steal away for myself? Really?”
“Well, you are a burglar, are you not?” And then the counfounded dwarf smirks at him, the right corner of his mouth quirking upwards. Honestly, Bilbo is somewhat surprised that Thorin waited at all. He could've left, and Bilbo would not have blamed him in the slightest. But here he is. Standing in front of his door, instead of doing whatever royal duty he should be attending to. Or heading off to bed himself. Still standing there. Still waiting.
“You had something to show me?” He asks, changing the subject as quickly as he can manage.
“Right. Yes, of course. This way.”
They don't talk much as they make their way down the corridor. Some pleasantries are exchanged, of course—how was your day? Yes, I do think that the mountain is getting a tad bit chilly. Yes, dinner was lovely—but there's not much after that. Just.. quiet, and the residual sounds of the mountain. It's surprisingly nice. Comfortable.
They go down winding stairs and through dark places that Bilbo can't see his own feet in. Thorin slows down to match his slow pace, offering him his arm every once in a while, looking away and straight ahead of them when Bilbo takes it. If the hobbit didn't know any better, which he does, he would say that he saw the dwarf blushing. For a moment. A trick of the light.
They eventually reach a part of Erebor that Bilbo hasn't been in yet, and he has to squint to look around.
“In here,” Thorin says, voice sudden and jarring in the quiet of the night, pushing the doors open and letting him walk in first.
Bilbo gasps as his eyes adjust to the low light, head whipping around to get a good view of the room around them. No, the garden around them.
It's not much of a garden, not by hobbit standards, but it's beautiful still. a welcome sight to see after seeing just stone and gem for so long. Verdent rows of herbs and vegetables line the floors, stray iredescent beams of moonlight streaking in from somewhere that Bilbo can't quite see. It's somewhat organized, though not with all the methodical precision that Bilbo has back in Bag End. It's shockingly jagged around the edges, with the plots being segregated into fine shapes with harsh edges and lines. He wouldn't have expected anything else from a dwarf-made garden, but still. It's almost shocking to see, a direct contrast to what he has back home.
“Oh, Thorin..” He whispers.
“I thought that you might like it.” The king says, almost shyly. It seems that the surprises just keep coming, don't they? Maybe he’s dreaming. Fell asleep while he was putting Frodo to bed. Though a quick glance at Thorin, blue eyes sparkling in the low light, tells him that he’s not. His mind couldn't imagine something so picturesque, he's sure.
“I do. It's lovely. How- how do you get light in here?” He asks, glancing up at the ceiling and seeing nothing but rock there to greet him.
“Mirrors,” Thorin says. “There are parts of the mountain where light shines through. We use mirrors to direct it here.”
“That's brilliant.” Bilbo walks a few steps forward and kneels down to tenderly take a small, blooming green tomato in his hands. Behind him, the dwarf’s chest puffs out in a show of pride. “Yes. It is.”
“You dwarow are something else, you know that?”
“Somewhat.”
He moves forward as well, kneeling on the ground next to Bilbo, looking at his hands as they continue their careful inspection.
“..Though you are certainly not farmers. Tomatoes and potatoes in the same plot is a recipe for disaster. Spread disease to one another more often than not.” The hobbit hums, letting the tomato drop. It bounces on its stem for a moment before stilling.
“Ah. I see. We should move them then?”
“Perhaps. Have you gotten any complaints yet?” When he doesn't get a response, Bilbo looks over at Thorin to find their faces very.. very close together all of a sudden. Were they this close together the entire time? Had he not noticed? Had Thorin moved closer? Had he himself done it subconsciously?
“No. None yet.”
“Huh?” Right. Right! They were having a conversation. Get a hold of yourself, Bilbo. They’ve been closer than this before, haven't they? Yes, of course. They had to have been. Oh, Eru, he can't remember. He can't remember much of anything at the moment.
“Ah. well. That's.. good.” He whispers. His eyes drifted down to Thorin’s lips. And then they move back up to his face, only to see the dwarf do the same thing to him. For a second, neither of them breathes or moves, caught in an odd limbo of staring and looking and being close enough to share breath.
Thorin leans in, looking like he might say something-
Bilbo shoots up.
“I best be getting back to my room-” He stumbles backwards, tripping over his own feet. “-Don't want Frodo waking up to see that I've gone! I- this was lovely, thor- your highness! absolutely lovely! Thank you.”
“Bilbo-” Thorin starts, before getting promptly interrupted.
“Best be on my way! Thank you! I'll just- find my way back now!”
He stumbles out of the room, quick as can be, hitting a wall or two in his haste to get away.
What was that?
No, really, what was that?
He’s going mad. He must be.
Yavanna save him from the confusing, confounding nature of Dwarves-
He barely notices when he runs into a large, sturdy chest—no, stomach. He blinks, looking up at the figure towering above him, his gaze quickly turning into a glare.
“Gandalf!”