Chapter Text
Hours later, when dinner had settled into full bellies and slow-drifting pipe smoke, the camp softened.
The princes were still talking.
Bilbo sat beside Bombur, carefully stringing strips of meat for drying. Precise. Focused. Necessary.
Dwalin watched him.
Leaves clung stubbornly to his curls. Dirt marked his sleeves. Sap caught near his temple.
And still—he worked.
Dwalin pushed himself to his feet.
“Anyone wanting a wash,” he called, voice carrying across the camp, “go now. Before dark.”
Groans. Movement.
Bilbo did not look up.
A moment passed.
Then Dwalin moved.
—
He crossed the space in a few strides and stopped beside Bilbo.
“Done.”
Bilbo didn’t pause. “Not quite—these need to be spaced—”
Dwalin took the string from his hands.
Bilbo blinked. “—Dwalin?”
“Done.”
The word was final.
He passed the work to Bombur without asking.
“…Just five more minutes,” Bilbo tried.
“No.”
A beat.
“Come.”
Bilbo hesitated—but followed.
—
The river lay just beyond the trees.
Wide enough. Deep enough that the bottom wasn’t easily seen.
Several of the Company were already there—laughing, splashing, wading without care.
Bilbo stopped short of the bank.
“I am not getting in there.”
Dwalin snorted. “Didn’t say you were.”
He filled a pot and set it on a flat stone.
“Sit.”
Bilbo did.
“This is hardly necessary,” he muttered.
“You’ve got half the forest in your hair.”
“That is an exaggeration.”
Dwalin stepped closer.
Bilbo went very still.
Behind them, water splashed loudly—Kíli, no doubt.
Careless. Easy.
Bilbo didn’t look.
Dwalin’s hand settled at the back of his head.
“Hold still.”
Bilbo did.
The cloth dragged through curls thick with dust and leaves. Dwalin worked patiently, freeing twigs, easing apart knots.
“Careful!” Bofur called from the water, laughing. “You’ll pull all his hair out like that!”
“I won’t.”
“I would rather you didn’t,” Bilbo added faintly.
Dwalin ignored them both, focusing on the stubborn patch of sap.
Slow. Methodical.
Bilbo’s shoulders were tight.
Dwalin didn’t comment.
Just stayed.
Another pass. Slower now.
Bilbo exhaled.
Behind them—laughter, splashing, noise.
In front of him—steady hands.
The last of the sap gave way.
“Done.”
Dwalin didn’t move his hand right away.
Bilbo didn’t pull away.
—
Later, when the fire had burned low and the Company settled once more, Bilbo returned.
Cleaner.
Quieter.
His curls were still unruly—but free of leaves and forest.
His pipe sat tucked neatly between his fingers.
He paused only a moment.
Then moved.
Not to Bombur.
Not to the princes.
But to Dwalin.
He settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.
Dwalin said nothing.
He didn’t need to.