Chapter Text
A few days after Christmas, the Durin's, Bilbo, and Erez had gone down to the coast to see Thorin, Dis, and Frerin's father, the famous Thrain. Thorin gave Bilbo the notorious run-down before entering the psych ward: "He's not sane, he will not remember you next time. Please note he's lewd and neurotic and possibly could call security on you for being a spy for the Gundabad Army."
Strange fantasies aside, Thrain wasn't as terrifying as Bilbo's mental image had been of him after all of these months. He had imagined a beast with blood dripping from his lips, wheelchair-bound and psychotic, a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. He was contrarily quite normal -- muscular and taut, with the impressive Durin eyes, a furrowed brow, and a dusting of wrinkles across his face. He could stand and walk (it was discovered that he walked his kingdom back and forth all day, and shouted at his "servants" to fetch his princess Dis) and spoke dignifiedly as if he was making a speech to a crowd of thousands. He knew his children by name, and even hugged Frerin, but avoided Bilbo and Erez as if they simply weren't there.
The nurse informed him quietly that after the death of his wife, Thrain remembered no one and nobody from that day on. He was a shell, merely tiptoeing across the line of real-life and fantasy. It was an onset of multiple things -- drug abuse, alcoholism, dementia, PTSD, and living with the (possible, although Bilbo believed the truth) revelation that he had murdered his wife over a money heist ten years prior. Going to jail wasn't even an option -- this was a more suitable punishment, and at least someone could watch him here because God knows what the King of Erebor would do behind bars.
Bilbo had tried to be sweet and kneeled next to Thrain's chair, touching his hand to his knee as he said hello. "Hi, nice to meet you, Thrain. I'm Bilbo Baggins."
Thrain had just looked at him, the pearly blues revealing a milky layer he hadn't noticed before; he was going blind. "And why do you bow before your king, Master Baggins?"
"Oh, umm..." Bilbo had shot a dire expression at Thorin, who just chuckled and waved him on. So much for being a supportive fiancé. "I'm set to be married to your son, Thorin, sir."
"Prince Thorin does not have any interest in romance or taking a wife," Thrain rolled his eyes, seeming to not catch the fact that Bilbo was a man. Okay, the golden curls and the pink cheeks might look feminine to a man going blind, but it was a tad bit offensive if he did say so himself. "His heart is set on taking the throne from under my feet, you know."
"I don't want it," Thorin growled, fingers pressing into his temples.
"I'd like to see you in a crown, your majesty," Bilbo whispered to him seductively, his lips teasing Thorin's earlobe. The author smirked and elicited a quiet growl, one of which Frerin overheard and shot a pistol of a stare at the two.
Erez raved to be out of his stroller, and so Frerin swept in and introduced his son to his new grandfather. "Dad, this is Erez, my son. Erez Thror Durin. You're a grandpa like you've always wanted to be."
Thrain gazed down at the drooling baby and furrowed his eyebrows far enough to touch the bridge of his nose. Blue eyes met, and the old man went speechless, his fingers fiddling into a fist as he pressed it softly against the newborn's cheek. "A baby. Why, he looks just like you, dear."
"He is the spitting image," Bilbo cooed, leaning his head on Thorin's shoulder. His partner was occupied with reading over a pamphlet the nurse had offered him; he didn't seem thrilled to be in possession of his father, just as expected. "What's the paperwork for?"
"Outpatient care in London," He murmured. "They want to move him to London, since he doesn't really pose a threat besides being incredibly arrogant. Dis and Frerin will be excited."
"And you? Are you excited?"
Thorin aimed a finger at his father, who was pretending to put a crown on baby Erez and then sighed heavily, his breath settling on Bilbo's head. "It's been a long time, but I'm still afraid of him. If he was closer... I fear what he might do to me. And you, I worry for you. You're my life, you and Dis and that baby brother of mine, and I admit I wouldn't be able to hold it together if something happened to any of you."
Bilbo's second week of teaching that year began with a Tervis cup of coffee, a migraine, and a double set of bags under his eyes.
He remembered nothing of the morning besides the past five minutes, driving the usual route to school without much thought paid to the speed limit or the road signs. Sometime around 3 a.m., he'd been awoken by shrill crying, and exited the nest of warmth in Thorin's arms to make Erez a bottle. He'd microwaved it, staring at the turning plastic bottle with half-assed care, and rocked the baby in the meantime. Once he'd pulled it out and deemed it a satisfactory temperature, he'd sat until 5 feeding Erez, burping him, and then rocking him back to sleep. Before long, he'd cried again, and that's how he and his fiancé ended up in their own bed with a baby lodged between their heads.
Frerin was doing an okay job with his newfound parenting skills. Bilbo had walked him through the basics, at least the ones that he remembered when his nephew, Frodo, was born. Frodo had been a good baby, quiet and sweet (the opposite of Erez, especially when around his father), but the teacher assured his brother-in-law that with the proper patience, Erez would turn out just fine. Besides, he wouldn't remember his first two years of life anyway, so why not make mistakes now, while you can't get backlashed for them?
Frerin took it upon himself to do the bare necessities -- he fed Erez his bottle anytime during the daylight hours (and left the night to Bilbo, just because he promised he needed at least twelve hours of rest to be a decent human), bathed him in the little sink in the guest bathroom, and set him up for playtime where he mainly just watched his father play video games and continually cried to press the buttons and whack the controller against the glass coffee table. He held him sometimes and talked to him quietly; mostly reciting some verses from the Torah, but also light gossip about the day or his band or the amount of noise his brother and his lover made in the bedroom.
Thorin was just as hopeless with the baby as his own brother. They were both squirmish with diapers and burping; Frerin found it disgusting and refused to do either regardless of how much Bilbo coached him, and Thorin was apprehensive to do so without someone watching to make sure he didn't get peed on or chunks of hair pulled out by tiny baby hands. He was sweeter with his nephew than Frerin, however, and he honestly didn't mind the company; he loved Erez and told him stories about talking animals, adding in bits about a homely adventurer and a king who ruled the kingdom of Erebor (leaving out the details about Thrain and his own obsession with the so-called "Lonely Mountain"). He carried him around and danced with him to 80's rock, and made him laugh and babble and light up like a firework, and even if he was helpless, it was enough for Bilbo to feel as if they weren't one-hundred percent doomed.
They still were unquestionably ninety-nine percent doomed, though.
Bilbo looked at Tauriel behind his lidded eyes when he keyed into the building, the sun just above the two-story high school and leaking through the windows in a filtered orange hue. "Morning."
"Good morning," She smiled enthusiastically, handing her pen over so the teacher could clock in. He penciled in his name and the time on the binder attached to the wall, and handed it back, motioning to his empty coffee cup. "Oh! There's some in the back room, as always. I thought you didn't drink coffee."
"It's a side-effect of living with Thorin and that baby," He chuckled, dropping his bag on one of the office chairs. He came back after refilling his coffee cup (which was entirely too cute for his liking; he'd stolen it from his partner not a week ago, wood-grained and stainless steel with watercolor mountains) and took a hearty sip, sliding down to get a little more rest in before heading to class. "I've been awake since five, and I am now officially addicted to coffee after the new year."
Oh yes, Bilbo had all but abandoned his negative opinion on coffee. Since he'd begun this trialing schedule of work and unclehood, he'd found that Thorin's coffee, which he made fresh every morning, was sincerely the most exquisite hot drink known to man. It kept him awake, and it made the morning so much more worthwhile. To wake up and snuggle with his favorite author in bed with a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs was as close to Heaven as his atheism beliefs could bring him to.
Who needed tea when you had hot men and hot coffee, both of which kept you awake longer than you needed to be?
"Welcome to the club," Tauriel giggled, toasting her own mug with his tumbler. "Can I see baby pictures? Please?"
"Of course," Bilbo handed his phone over to his co-worker, and she squeaked finding hundreds of candid shots of Erez, and Thorin holding him. "He makes me feel like I got ran over by a bus, but he's still the most darling newborn in the entire world. He's already too big," He pouted, looking down at his shoes with a broken smile. "They grow way too fast."
"Oh my gosh, I want him," She brooded, furrowing an eyebrow. A photo was up with Thorin asleep on the sofa, in his boxers with baby Erez strewn across his chest. His big blue eyes shone up at Bilbo and his camera, a radiant smile across his little lips; he gave Bilbo that same Durin look as if he'd just robbed the moon and given it to him as a souvenir. "Can I have both of them, Thorin and Erez?"
Bilbo rose from his chair and took his phone, tucking it into his trousers. "I wish. It's like advanced babysitting, with a grown man and a demanding baby who favors his man-child of an uncle. Aren't you married?"
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I can't be jealous. Yours is hot."
"Taken, sorry," He smirked, flashing his ring before making his way to the office door. "See you later, Tauriel!"
"Bye Mr. Baggins-slash-Durin!" She shouted after him, keeping up the line of parents on the telephone who was demanding her answers.
The hardest part of adapting to his new life was that Bilbo found it increasingly difficult to have his mind on one subject in particular. He used to be able to lecture Shakespeare for four hours straight, no mess-ups, his entire mindset on Hamlet, and nothing else interrupting his thoughts. Work was fine for someone like he had been towards the middle of the past year -- he was single, tired, drawn-out on tea and alcohol, and having a sporadic lay-in with Peter or some fellow he'd met at the bar. Any free time he had to spare in his days, he was reading Oakenshield or grading papers, avoiding the texts from his family to come for dinner or at least respond so they could know he was still breathing.
In London, you tend to lose your old self quickly, but Bilbo found it newfangled that up until meeting Thorin, he'd stayed quite the same. As if he was a rock in a garden, never moving from season to season, and the only excitement to his life being watching the world spin around him. He recalls a moment with his mother not five years ago, in his family home. They'd drank wine because she was dying -- because the doctor advised she not drink to worsen her cancer, they were drinking hard. And Bilbo, being the good son that he was, let her drink to her heart's delight. Who was he to prohibit his mother from enjoying her life? It hadn't come to him until recently, in a conversation with the new therapist he'd booked with the past week, that he himself was, quite frankly, doing just what the doctor ordered.
He himself was prohibiting himself from enjoying his life, putting an end to relationships that were half-whit at best, only thinking about Shakespeare. But now that he'd thought it out, and dabbled in the excitements of life with famous authors and babies, it was worth it to drink the wine. He'd seen Belladonna fall to her knees and die in that hospital bed a week after their drunken adventure; somehow he had convinced himself he was endowed to living in safety and grieving forever, and it was eating him alive. Thorin had been indecisive about his decision to talk to a therapist, but although he'd put down the offer to go himself, he had been noticing little things and pointing them out for his partner whenever he needed an extra boost in morale.
"Your color is looking better, dear heart," He'd commented this morning, right before hopping into the shower. He had left earlier than Bilbo for a meeting with his advisor since the new year held new book deals but had promised to be back before the evening to watch Erez; Frerin had other plans with friends in London, and so had begged, no, pleaded that Thorin and Bilbo watch his son...
And how was he finding a sitter for that, if he was sitting in Bilbo's chair, at his school desk, in his quickly-filling classroom that morning?
"Hey, dear heart," Thorin greeted, his legs strewn out on top of the wooden desk. He was dressed in his formal wear -- a checkered collared shirt, black trousers, shiny shoes... was that his school ID on a lanyard? "Surprise."
"You're... I didn't take the day off," Bilbo raised his eyebrow and watched apprehensively as some of his students, Ori and Bofur included, were suddenly ignoring their phone screens and homework for the telenovela in front of them. It seemed Thorin had lied about his meeting in order to be in the school this morning; the thing was, as sweet as the surprise was, they had a baby to look after, and besides, his fiancé was barely being professional in front of his nosy class. "How'd you get in?"
Thorin pointed to his badge, which had the school's mascot on it, and a photograph of him. Just like Bilbo's, except the inscription under Thorin's name was Substitute Teacher instead of Advanced English and Literature. "Tauriel let me in. She is sworn to secrecy; we're giving you the day off."
"You're what?" Bilbo snorted, trying to shove the author off of his chair. "No, I have a class to teach, you nut," He pushed his glasses up further onto his nose and set down his coffee mug. "Go home, do... writing, or something."
"I'm not budging, dear heart," The brunette smiled and snickered when his lover sat down in his lap and fought from being miserably denied his own desk for the day. Bofur shot a photograph from the corner of the room, and Bilbo glowered before the boy motioned his lips zipped up. "You go do something. Dis is watching the baby for you. Here," He grabbed for his wallet and revealed a steel black card with a gold inscription. Oh, fuck me, Bilbo thought, that's his Starbucks membership. "Go have a nice day by yourself -- you deserve it! I'm going to watch your class and you are going to go to the bookstore, get lunch, whatever you desire that will get rid of those bags under your eyes my baby brother is causing."
"Yeah, Mr. Baggins," Ori said in a placid voice, piping up from his desk in the front row. The first school period was always his favorite class to teach -- he had his favorite students, in their last year of high school, and most of them, save for a handful, were smart and interested. Most. "I can watch Thor- I mean, Mr. Durin, for you."
"Oh, thanks, Ori, now I need to be babysat," Thorin frowned humorously, crossing his arms. Ori smiled sheepishly and tucked his nose back into his novel. The author (now teacher, which was oddly sexy to someone like Bilbo who was already a teacher) turned his head and smiled, bringing him in for a very short, very friendly peck on the cheek. The few students that hung around before class hollered, and Bilbo shot them the bird. "They already know and I'm sure I'll get the brunt of the teasing today, okay? Spoil yourself today. Did you want my credit card, too?"
"Oh my goodness, no, I can... spoil myself, Thorin," Bilbo blushed, and reached for his coat and bag. Okay, so there was no getting out of this, but he wasn't going to complain about the proposal of free coffee. "I'll go get a coffee and edit your book, okay? But then I'm relieving Dis, so she doesn't have to miss work to watch our little monster."
Thorin raised both dark eyebrows, his blue eyes dimming. " Our little monster?"
We aren't going there, not yet. Bilbo wanted to admit how he felt about Erez's future in the hands of someone so... impossible as Frerin Durin, but he'd save it for a more proper discussion. Not in front of his students, or his fiancé when he was dressed so handsomely in all formality and collar. "Y-Yes. Our nephew, I mean."
"Right. Well, have a nice day. Don't come home until later," He warned, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder. He leaned in for another short kiss. "I love you. I'll try not to rile up your kids; did you have a lesson plan?"
"Oh! Not really, umm..." The teacher picked around in his pile of papers, finding a battered annotated version of David Copperfield. Thorin's favorite novelist was Dickens, and he knew it would be beneficial if he could teach something he prized inside and out, heart and soul. "Want to read this, lover boy?"
"Yes please," Thorin smirked, taking the book and pressing it close to his heart. He shot a look at the clock and waved his hand for Bilbo to make his way out of the building. "I've got this! I'll text you if I have any questions. Be safe."
Bilbo proceeded his way out of the school building that morning feeling better than he had in a handful of years. Sun was pouring through the barren trees along the sidewalk and the air was crisp, cold but not enough for him to reach for his scarf or gloves. His leather-bound copy of Magnolia Sky, the first edition of the new extended prints to be released in June, was in his hands, and he felt light, dancing through London. He ended up at a Starbucks and ordered a caramel latte, tucking himself into the corner of the cafe with his novel and his fountain pen; he was playing editor now for Thorin's books, something he found to be more beneficial than he'd ever imagined.
Thorin needed help with his writing. Bilbo hadn't realized until he broke open some of the test copies of his books that he was actually quite patchy with his words. It wasn't a bad thing; the more he read what hadn't been edited, he saw the broken down, anxious, pessimistic man that was his fiancé. The one who missed his mother dearly, and worried about his father, and sought to keep his family together when the universe was crumbling around them. He definitely wrote therapeutically; once the editor changed his words and thoughts to romance, it was impossible to notice. But Bilbo understood, and he knew how painful it must have been for Thorin to allow him to read his books. Not the publishers, and not Oakenshield, but just Thorin and his literature.
Just grammar fixes and some minor wording would do wonders -- it would be nice for Thorin to publish something under his own name.
He moved to another spot in the little parlor and finished up a chapter, marking little notes and suggestions along the wide margins designed specifically for an editor to fill in. Once he started getting hungry, he sent Thorin a text about the class and made his way down the street, whistling merrily despite the rain. Therapy really was one of the best decisions he'd made in a long time, and he was finding it easier to ignore the looming demons in his heads that had moved in once Belladonna had passed.
Until he glanced at his phone and discovered it was screaming for his answer -- blinking green, and angrily insisting he answer it.
The teacher snorted (his life really was a massive satire) and whisked himself around, clutching his leather bag. He frowned at the name on the screen, and then pressed the device to his ear, popping his hood up over golden curls. "Dwalin, why are you calling me like something is wrong?"
"Took you this long to pick up?" The bodyguard chortled, obviously a hostile smile growing on his whiskers. Bilbo moved closer to the coffee shop, avoiding the rush of businessmen and strollers, and prepared for the meltdown he was about to receive. So much for a relaxing day off. "It's Frerin."
"Great, I knew it was." He remembered something about Thorin's brother having the day off from both the baby and his current part-time job as a guitar repairman, so it wasn't startling in the least that he'd found some way to demolish his one day to himself. "What'd he do? Is the baby okay?"
"The baby's fine. Are you at school?" Dwalin mumbled, and he could hear the raging of sirens somewhere; he wasn't sure if it was the city itself or wherever his bodyguard worked, but it suited the moment regardless.
"No, Thorin's watching my class today. I was just getting a bit of his editing done for the spring re-release."
"The cops are here, Bilbo," He sighed dramatically and then turned his attention to talking to what appeared to be a paramedic. "They found Frerin's bag chock full of drugs, and he was passed out in some Piccadilly alley. They're searching your flat for more evidence, but Fre's insisting he didn't know where he got it; also, he told me to call you and to not tell Thorin. We're taking him to the hospital once he comes 'round."
"For god's sake, I'm going to tell him!" Bilbo kicked the nearest thing to his foot, which happened to be a massive brick that shot pain up his toes and to his shin. "I'll be there shortly... who has Erez?"
"I do. Dis is speaking to the lawyer, so I'm arm-full of baby. Just meet us at the hospital; I'll call Thorin and make sure he knows to meet us there," Dwalin said as the professor was already hand out, hailing a yellow taxi to the side of the street.
Cars allotted on the busy January afternoon, and he knew playing it safe and announcing he was simply going to visit the hospital wasn't going to make the driver hastily. Instead, he faked panic, and announced loudly, "My brother is in the hospital; they said he's lost his mind!"
In all frankness, it was hilarious enough a satire excuse to tell Dis once he'd shimmed up the elevator and into the white-washed hospital room at St. John's. He'd always hated hospitals since Bungo passed; he remembers clearly the harsh light and the blue flooring, nurses pulling and shoving at him from coming in once his father had passed. Bella was in there, and he recalls the sound of her sobs, imagining her on the hospital bed next to her late husband, pulling at his curls, demanding he not leave mother and son like this, not so soon, not now, Bungo, dear...
But he was man enough now to suck it up and make himself small in the exam room, where Dis, Dwalin, and a white-haired man that Bilbo recognized as Balin Fundin (Dwalin's older brother, who was Dis' appointed judge in the courtrooms) were making quiet remarks. Frerin was laid across the bed, the top of the machine angled to keep his fluid moving. He looked faint, not like the sprightly young lad that had been living with him for a little under a month; Frerin Durin was supposed to look alive, and clutch hearts of any nearby lass with his golden locks, clean-shaven face, and those darling blue eyes.
"Hey," Dis greeted quietly as Bilbo joined their little standing circle, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Thorin's on his way; one of the nurses has Erez. We're just discussing recovery."
"Right. Did the doctor say what he took?" Bilbo was no expert on the habits of touring rock stars, but he guessed it was heroin or cocaine. Frerin was always happy, even when he was moodier than his own brother. He was like looking at the sun on a summer's day, July, so lasting and hot and oh god, he really wasn't looking alive right now. "I didn't even guess he was ever under the influence, let alone addicted."
The Durin sister eyed her cousins awkwardly and made a motion towards the door, windowless and sterile. Dwalin called for Balin and led him into the hallway, leaving Dis and Bilbo to their own discussion. "You can't tell Thorin."
"What do you mean? This is his brother." The teacher's eyelids rose, and he found himself tensing fingers into his palms. He was outraged that even his fiancé's sister believed his lover to be sensitive; he was, sure, but he was strong and sweet and the goddamn king of this family , Thrain jokes aside. "What can't he know, Dis?"
"It's all one big heist, I think... or, at least Balin agrees with me," The dark-haired woman dug through the samples of orange pill bottles the detectives had found in their flat, and revealed a more familiar prescription. Bilbo caught it mid-air, and stared down, gridlocked in horror.
"This is Thorin's Xanax," He muttered, the label clearly dated and prescribed to that of the fine author Bilbo adored so well. Thorin had been tentative to even tell Bilbo he was taking such a highly addictive drug for his anxiety, but it was expected for someone like his boyfriend; it was safe for what he was using it for, and it worked for millions of other anxiety attack sufferers. "He takes it for his panic attacks; it's empty, so I imagine Frerin's crammed full of it?"
"Absolutely. The doctor contacted Thorin's psychiatrist. We confirmed it was recently refilled, so either my brother didn't realize it had run out so fast, or Frerin took what was left and has been readily reaping Xanax."
"Oh dear," Bilbo slumped down in the squeaky chair and glanced between the orange bottle and Frerin. His brother-in-law was asleep, drugged out on the IVs he was hooked up to; why hadn't they seen this coming, especially when he brought home a newborn baby of his own on Christmas day? "Alright, okay. How can I help?"
"You can start by consoling my dear brother; he's going to need you," Dis smiled pitifully and stepped back as Thorin made his way into the little room. He was winded, his hair long and unkempt from the English winter, and he was toting a backpack as if they intended to stay the night. Of course, they would, but Bilbo had expected him to be rather unhandy during this time of turmoil. Okay, who was he kidding? Frerin got into trouble more often than he knew about.
The siblings hugged before the author sank down into the chair next to Bilbo, his lips finding his forehead and pressing a soft kiss there. "Hey. How is he?"
"Hey yourself," The teacher greeted, body curling around Thorin's in order to find warmth in his hearth of a body. He was quite wet from his messy taxi departure when the rain was still going full-on. "He's steady. They got it out of his system, but he's in a bit of shock. It might be a few days until he's able to communicate." He reached over and kissed him again, lips wrapping around those plump purple beauties. "I'm so sorry, my dear."
"It's okay," He rued, shaking his head. "It's not the first overdose Fre's got himself into. But it's always scary; luckily your classes let out and I had time to go home, feed the dogs, and grab a change of clothes. Did you have a nice day off up until now?"
"It was actually exceptional," The golden-haired man gleamed, kissing his boyfriend in the crook of his neck. "Thank you, I needed it. I worked on some of your editing at my favorite coffee shop until Dwalin called me."
"Nice. Oh, I brought you this, since I figured you'd be drenched." The backpack Thorin constantly toted around was the only luxury item Bilbo recalled him having; it was Coach, a warm orange leather with silver zips and his initials pressed into the material near the top. A gift from Dis (as he said once after Bilbo claimed him to be richer than the P.M.), it was always with him, fitting his laptop, books, and papers, and of course, one of his old hoodies which he promptly handed to his lover. A vintage Oxford hoodie from his university days -- warm, safe, secure. "Are you okay with staying overnight here?"
"With you, I'll sleep on the tile," He joked, prodding Thorin in the shoulder after he slipped into the cozy jumper. "Sure. I'll get a substitute that's not you for tomorrow. Speaking of which, how were my kids?"
Thorin hiked his arm around Bilbo's shoulders, resting a foot up against Frerin's bed, where he was still conked out like Princess Aurora. "Actually, it was hell. I thought it would be fun. I let Bofur read out loud and he ended up coaxing the entire class to read in a Russian accent."
"Teaching! It sounds like fun when you're learning how to do it, but there's nothing you can do to make it pleasant. It's brutal. Ori and Bofur are an awful duo but it makes the time pass," Bilbo explained, pulling on his bottom lip with his teeth. "Although sometimes you can inspire a few select minds, and they come out brilliant like you."
"Aw," The author responded quietly, sifting through his bag. He removed a few articles of clothing, his wallet, Jeep keys, and an assemblage of paperback novels before he noticed something was missing -- that something being the exact drug Bilbo was reckoned to be keeping a mystery from him, under Dis' shelter.
"Fuck." Thorin tugged at his left eyelid. "Fuck. I forgot my pills."