Chapter Text
True to his word, Bilbo spent every waking moment at Thorin’s side during his recovery, and many of his sleeping ones as well, unless Oin caught him at the bedside and shooed him out. It was a good week before the city was clear enough to house the wounded, including Thorin, even at the break-neck pace of dwarven construction. However, once in, it was certainly more comfortable, with a fire roaring in the hearth and Thorin’s bed piled high with furs.
Thorin’s bandages needed regular changing, and he spent most of his hours sleeping to recover his strength. Bilbo had never played nurse for anyone but close family, but the hours flew by without his noticing, and he found himself quite content to fuss over every in-drawn breath, each growing stronger by the day, to fetch water at any croaked request, and with a little instruction he was even able to change poultices and bandages so as to free up Oin to tend to the other wounded. Which was of course the only reason why he did it, as far as the Company needed to know.
Ori was kind enough to fetch Bilbo a few books from Erebor’s vast libraries, insisting that even the most dedicated caretaker would grow bored at some point. Bilbo skimmed the volumes, mostly histories of Erebor and the surrounding area, dusty tomes filled with panegyrics to King Thror. He hadn’t known how to explain to Ori that it was really no burden, that just being able to assure himself from moment to moment that Thorin was still there, still alive, was enough.
Once, the thought of devoting himself to the care of another would have been met with at least mild distaste. Bilbo had always preferred his solitude, and jealously guarded it against outsiders. Yet as he walked in with the afternoon meal, he did so with a spring in his step. It was a meal of some note, as he had finally convinced Oin that Thorin could handle foods more solid than broth. A heavy fish chowder mixed with potatoes and leaks steamed in the two bowls on his tray, courtesy of the Lake-town contingent, and the smell was terribly tempting even to the most picky hobbit nose.
“Luncheon is served,” Bilbo announced, closing the door behind him with his foot as he padded over the thick carpets to Thorin’s bed side. There was a table and chair set up beside them, not to mention an oaken lap desk that could be perched over Thorin’s legs to serve as a table in bed. Bilbo huddled close, setting the tray down beside the bed before moving Thorin’s bowl over to the desk.
Thorin had been resting upright, dark hair fanned across the many pillows of the bed, and he cracked an eye open at Bilbo’s announcement, glancing down at the food placed before him. “Did we not just have breakfast?” he rumbled, his eyes sliding shut again as he burrowed back into the pillows, insofar as he could wrapped tight with bandages.
Bilbo gave Thorin a tap on the nose, perhaps the only part of him that was yet uninjured, drawing the dwarf back from further dozing. “We’ve had one, yes, and a sorry state of affairs it is when a hobbit is limited to only three meals a day.”
“I am not a hobbit,” Thorin pointed out.
Bilbo huffed. “Even so, you are recovering and need all the strength you can get. You should have seen the almighty row I had with Oin just to convince him you’re ready for solid food again.”
“And for that I thank you,” Thorin said solemnly, a faint smile flickering over his lips that Bilbo had the dreadful suspicion was at his own expense. “Another day of vegetable broth would surely have been the end of me.”
“Don’t even joke,” Bilbo retorted. “After all the work I’ve put in, Thorin Oakenshield, if you find some way to slip away on me I will hunt you down to the next life.”
“You know I never joke,” Thorin said earnestly, face completely straight with only the hint of a smile dancing behind his eyes.
Bilbo gave him a suspicious look. “And what has you in such a pleasant mood?” he asked, settling into the chair and unwrapping the spoons from a napkin, which for good measure he tucked into the collar of Thorin’s loose shirt. Thoring suffered this indignity with a wry look, meek as a lamb as he accepted the spoon from Bilbo’s hand.
“I should think it would be obvious,” Thorin said, and took his first bite. He winced as he swallowed, though it was only broth, and Bilbo frowned despite himself, wondering if he had been hasty attempting to graduate Thorin up to the next level of recovery. Perhaps he had been too eager to see progress, when Thorin’s chest was still so badly wounded from Azog’s blade. But the dwarf smoothed his features and took another bite, the second without nearly so much sign of pain.
“Pray tell. To be quite honest it’s rather unsettling to see anything but a permanent scowl on that face of yours,” Bilbo said casually, then quickly corrected. “Of course, all for perfectly understandable reasons, what with our recent circumstances.”
Thorin gave him a curious glance. “Do you really think me so dour?”
“In a word?” Bilbo said, “And are you quite sure you want the answer to that?”
Thorin snorted and looked up from his soup, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me, Master Baggins, what do I have to trouble me these days?” He nodded towards the door. “My city is restored, my nephews recovering, and our Company survived. There are many difficulties yet to consider, and reparations for the harm done by Smaug, but nothing so bad as it could have been. Nothing so terrible as my worst fears. There is even one joy I could never have anticipated, and in that my life is rich beyond measure.”
Bilbo went quiet as Thorin spoke. A light shone from his face when he spoke of Erebor and joy, a youthful exuberance, years of care falling from Thorin’s shoulders and face, and Bilbo thought he might have the tiniest glimpse of the prince the city might have had if not for the calamity that fell upon it. It was such a distraction that only Bilbo’s instinct for polite conversation kicked in in time for him to ask, “And what is that?”
Thorin’s hand closed around his, shocking Bilbo from his contemplation of his face. Bilbo looked down to see a broad, bandaged hands cover his own.
“Oh.” Bilbo blinked, comprehension dawning. “Oh, now you’re just being absurd, and at my expense no less.”
“Don’t you remember? I never joke,” Thorin said.
A complicated array of emotions crossed Bilbo’s face, settling on a blush and a faint growl of embarrassment as he looked down and muttered, “You should eat your soup before it goes cold,” he said as he dug into his own.
As such he missed Thorin’s blinding grin, and the fact that dwarves eyes never left him even as they shared the rest of their meal together.