Chapter Text
It made a sad sort of sense that the moment Dwalin fell in love was several years after he’d decided it just wasn’t going to happen. He’d come to believe such a thing was no longer possible, not after the battles he had seen, the losses he had suffered and the way he had come to built his life around duty, fighting, honour. The life of a through-and-through warrior.
He was no monk, of course. He had had dalliances in his youth, including a brief and thrilling interlude that he and Thorin no longer spoke about. He knew the experience of infatuation. Up until recent decades he had become attracted to the occasional handsome or beautiful individual. But he had never fallen in love. And now he was almost past his prime, not in terms of fighting but certainly in terms of romance.
So this, naturally, was where he stood when he discovered that he was rapidly becoming obsessed with a hobbit.
Bilbo was short. It was not often that Dwalin got to call someone of another race short. His hair was short. His patience, apparently, was also short. His hands were fine and unscarred, without callouses or evidence of any kind of hard work. His feet were perpetually bare, and his travelling clothes were almost stupidly light. He was naïve, and occasionally just plain silly. Dwalin was also pretty sure that idiocy played an equal role to bravery in Bilbo’s leaping to Thorin’s defence when the king’s life was threatened.
But, here he was. Trying futilely to eradicate thoughts of Bilbo from his mind. The hobbit was so … frail. Principled and noble, apparently, and at least he turned out to be genuinely “remarkably light on his feet”, so he’d probably make a worthwhile burglar after all. But he had no idea how to wield that little elvish dagger and he made up for his unexpected value by being dangerously vulnerable.
Dwalin didn’t know what to do about his feelings, which was the worst part. If he could dismiss them, that would make it easy, but he couldn’t. Bilbo had crept unseen into his heart and was lodged there like an arrowhead. He tried distancing himself from Bilbo, but at first he was cross because Bilbo didn’t appear to notice the distancing, and then he was put completely out of sorts when Bilbo did notice, and approached one evening to awkwardly ask if perhaps he’d done something wrong because really, he never meant to cause any offence, but if he had he’d like a chance to apologize.
Dwalin couldn’t just accept his feelings either. These were amongst the worst possible scenarios in which to fall in love with someone. He couldn’t court Bilbo properly even if they weren’t travelling across Middle Earth to return to Erebor to confront a dragon. Bilbo wasn’t even the same race. He wasn’t a soldier, or a lady. He wasn’t going to stay in Erebor, assuming they won and assuming they all lived. Following his heart’s desire and trying to woo Bilbo would be a bad idea, even if he wanted to give in to love.
Bilbo, as it turned out, had other ideas.
They were on their second day staying at Beorn’s when Bilbo walked over to Dwalin, a sense of purpose in his gait. Dwalin had settled himself away from the others and was sitting indoors, in a private corner away from windows and natural light and Beorn’s strange animals.
‘I know I’ve asked this before,’ Bilbo began carefully. Dwalin remained in a half-lean with his back to the wall, frowning, as Bilbo stood before him in his battered red corduroy coat and button-less waistcoat. He really did look charmingly dishevelled.
‘I know there is something going on. And it clearly involves me, and only me, since you haven’t changed the way you speak to any of the others, but you barely talk to me now at all. I just want to know why.’ He said it in the firmest voice a hobbit could muster, sincere and conjured both at once.
‘Nothing you need to worry yourself about,’ Dwalin said dismissively.
‘It is worrying me,’ Bilbo insisted. ‘And it’s not going to stop worrying me until I know why you can’t look at me without looking angry.’
Dwalin intensified his frown. It usually worked to scare off Fili and Kili when they were being pests, but Bilbo stood his ground, despite shrinking a little where he stood.
‘It’s no concern of yours,’ Dwalin said firmly.
‘But it does concern me, doesn’t it,’ Bilbo said. It wasn’t a question. Dwalin was thrown, for a moment. On one hand, Bilbo’s concern was flattering and it made Dwalin abnormally pleased about being badgered.
‘Perhaps,’ Dwalin gruffly admitted.
Bilbo hesitated. He bit his lower lip, and one foot pressed lightly on the other. For a moment, he looked bashful. He looked truly adorable.
‘I’m not sure whether I should ask,’ Bilbo confessed quietly. ‘If I’m wrong, I’ll look like a fool.’
Dwalin held his breath.
‘And I’d hate to insult you by accident, but … maybe, if I ask it, it would be easier than making you say it? Particularly if you didn’t want to say it,’ Bilbo said, words coming out in a stumbling rush now that he had begun to introduce his theory. Dwalin’s heart began to beat quickly. He felt young for the first time in a long time. He didn’t even feel this way before a battle any more. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. Thorin would never let him live it down.
‘It’s just, I’ve seen people act this way before, and you may laugh at me if I’m mistaken, at least I’d rather you laugh at me than be angry with me for assuming it,’ Bilbo said, and Dwalin had to cross his arms. Bilbo hushed immediately.
‘Just say what you want to say,’ Dwalin said impatiently. His voice came out, fortunately, much less shaky than he felt on the inside.
‘Is it perhaps the case that … what I mean is, do you, or are you … fond of me?’ Bilbo said, and his face the moment he got the words out betrayed how badly he wished he could rephrase the sentence. Dwalin’s heart kept pounding in his chest.
‘What d’you mean by that?’ he asked, stalling for time as he wondered desperately what he should say. Had he been so transparent? Had any of the others noticed?
‘I don’t mean … well yes, I do mean, and what I mean is, have you become maybe fonder of me than you would be of a friend?’ Bilbo asked, face slightly pinched as he tried to word, as properly as a proper hobbit could, his question. Do you want to kiss me? Are you attracted to me?
Have you been having dreams about fucking me senseless that have you waking at all hours, panicking for several minutes because you think you might have moaned my name aloud in your slumber?
Dwalin uncrossed his arms. There was no escaping it now. If Bilbo had noticed it, he’d noticed it.
‘No need to choke on your words, master Baggins,’ Dwalin said. ‘I’d no intention of wooing you.’
‘Ah,’ Bilbo said. It had no air of finality to it, and betrayed no disappointment or relief. His expression barely changed. Dwalin wondered how much Bilbo expected him to say.
‘What I mean is,’ Dwalin grunted, imitating Bilbo’s flustered tone, ‘I know your feelings don’t reflect mine, and I have no intention of burdening you.’
At that, Bilbo’s eyes suddenly narrowed. It was his turn to cross his arms. Dwalin balked a little. He had expected relief, not annoyance.
‘Well at least give me a chance to respond before deciding for yourself how I feel about it,’ Bilbo huffed indignantly. ‘It’s all very well and good to call it impossible, but if you’re going to be cross with me for rejecting you, you ought to make sure I’ve actually rejected you first. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’m really very fond of you, and the idea of hurting you, deliberately or not, upsets me quite a bit.’
Then Bilbo seemed to come back to himself, going from stomping mad to foot-shuffling and shy.
‘Of course, really, any unsuitability exists on my side rather than on yours. You are, after all, noble and a skilled warrior and highly thought of among your peers, and I’m … well. Well, it’s already been very much established what I am,’ Bilbo murmured, and Dwalin wondered frantically, what did we establish? When?? Do you still think you’re useless?
‘And perhaps, if I haven’t extended any gesture of affection towards you, it’s not because I feel no affection for you, but because I am very aware of my own unsuitability, and I didn’t want to put you to the trouble of explaining to me why a union would be inappropriate. So really, there’s no need to let me down gently by offering me an out like, “I know you don’t feel the same,” because hobbits hold honesty above dignity, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, and I’d feel much more comfortable if you’d just admit that I’m not the sort of person you’d want to bind yourself to.’
Foot-shuffling and shy once more made way to irritated blustering, and if Dwalin wasn’t so cross by the time Bilbo finished, he’d think it was cute. Like a kitten hissing and spitting at a dog.
But he was cross. “Not the sort of person”? Did Bilbo think Dwalin was too posh to marry a hobbit?
‘I don’t know what you must think of me to say something like that,’ Dwalin growled, when it was clear Bilbo was done growling at him. ‘I’m not the type to look down on someone, even if you think I am, and I was being honest when I said I didn’t want to burden you. But if it offends your dignity so much to place yourself on the same level as me, maybe we’re not so well suited after all.’
He knew he was probably letting his anger get the better of him. An unfamiliar, frightening sense of wrong, you’re saying the wrong thing, say something else, take it back, quick! was overcoming his mind, and he had never wanted to take anything back before and he didn’t know how. But Bilbo’s face was falling, and Dwalin was suddenly unsure of what to say, and he wasn’t used to feeling unsure either, and maybe if this was what love did to people, he ought to fight harder to get it out of his system, because he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
‘Is that all it takes, then? You’re not actually willing to try?’
I am. I promise. No, I’m not. It’s too hard. But I want to, I swear I do, I swear.
Bilbo cleared his throat and looked at his feet. Here was a look Dwalin could recognize, and he hated it. It was the look of someone shielding themselves from a blow they had already received.
‘Well. That’s all right then. Never mind. I’m glad we’ve hashed it all out. Let’s not speak of this again.’
And then he turned on his heel and walked away, and his walk was stiff, like he had been struck and was trying not to show it. There had been confusion in his eyes, and badly guarded pain, as if Bilbo didn’t know how to deal with the situation either except to run from it. And maybe Bilbo had been willing to try, very willing, and the reason he was retreating and so hurt now was because he had genuinely expected that Dwalin would be willing to try too.
Dwalin wanted to run after him. He wanted to apologize, offer to, oh, what should he offer? The truth? He thought about Bilbo all the time. He worried about him. He wished Bilbo joy, he just wasn’t sure he was the one to give it. He loved Bilbo, he just didn’t know how to love, because he’d never been in love before.
Should he just give up on words, because words were hard, and sweep Bilbo off his feet when the others weren’t looking and give some substance to his dreams, even if it was just the taste of Bilbo’s lips? Should he offer his bedroll for the night, or would that come across as too forward, too temporary? Should he offer something more permanent?
Or was it safer, for him and for Bilbo, even if it was more painful in the long run, to just not try?
He sat at the other end of the table to Bilbo at dinner that night. He couldn’t pay enough attention to Gloin or Nori to participate fully in their conversation, and he knew that Thorin was shooting him glances. Bilbo too, probably. Bofur tried to keep Bilbo’s attention with jokes and lewd stories, but Bilbo’s heart wasn’t in his smiles or his replies. And Dwalin couldn’t keep his eyes off Bilbo for more than a few minutes.
Thorin subtly cuffed his elbow as they were standing, and indicated with a tilt of his head to the verandah leading out the back. Dwalin followed.
When they were alone, Thorin frowned.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you were the type, old friend,’ Thorin said in a subdued voice. Dwalin sat at the very edge of the verandah and searched for his pipe.
‘The type to fancy a hobbit, or the type to mope?’
‘Neither,’ Thorin said, and sat beside him. He offered his pouch of pipeweed. Dwalin took a small pinch and tamped it down with his forefinger. Their conversations were usually short, especially if those conversations were about feelings. He wanted to go to bed and sleep as soon as possible, and hopefully descend into oblivion this time instead of dreaming of soft curly hair and those big sad eyes.
‘I did not think you would deny yourself something you truly wanted,’ Thorin said delicately. ‘Let alone deprive another.’
Dwalin paused. He lit his pipe and puffed for a moment before risking a look. Thorin was outright staring at him. Dwalin rolled his eyes.
‘Fond of him yerself?’ he asked, borrowing Bilbo’s term for it.
‘I would like to see him happy. He did save my life, at great personal risk. And if I could see you happy for once as well, I’d consider it killing two birds with one stone.’
Typical Thorin. Turning something tender into something brutal, first chance he got.
‘Any suggestions? Seeing as I seem to have convinced him that I’m the worst candidate out of everyone, short of the married ones,’ Dwalin said, jabbing his thumb in Bombur and Gloin’s directions.
‘Not like you to be so melodramatic. You have most certainly changed,’ Thorin replied smoothly.
‘I’m being perfectly serious,’ Dwalin said darkly. ‘I can’t … I just, can’t. I don’t know how.’
Thorin did not respond to that. There was a moment then, almost of sombre camaraderie. Neither of them had had a proper chance to learn how to communicate that kind of love with another person. Neither of them were equipped for it. Their adult lives had been full of duty and hard work and not much else.
‘Listen to him,’ Thorin said quietly. ‘He knows what he wants. And he is a great deal more patient than any dwarf.’
Dwalin sighed. That was true. Bilbo’s easy forgiveness when his name had been repeatedly slighted, his dedication despite all insult and all reason, was evidence of that. And even if Dwalin had hurt his feelings, Bilbo had still approached him first, and that showed genuine interest.
That night, instead of heading for his own bedroll, Dwalin approached Bilbo’s. Bilbo had relocated to a screened area further from the fire, and was sitting in his shirt with his jacket balled up to serve as a pillow, inspecting his waistcoat and comparing different sized, crudely-carved wooden buttons to serve as potential replacements for the ones he had lost.
He glanced up as Dwalin’s shadow fell over his hands, and his expression switched immediately from surprise, to a glimpse of emotion, and then to carefully constructed blankness.
‘Yes?’
Slightly abrupt. Not annoyed. Just clipped, and very guarded. He had not expected to be approached, not by Dwalin. That stung, but only because Dwalin didn’t want to be unapproachable. Not anymore.
‘You were right,’ Dwalin said, feeling the parallel. This must be something like how Bilbo had felt, when he was fighting to get his words out, not sure how they would be received.
‘About what?’ Bilbo murmured, looking away as he placed his waistcoat by his bedroll. He stood. He seemed almost half-dressed, in only his shirt and his pants. It was very similar to what he had worn on that first night, the night they met, except Bilbo had been in a dressing gown then. Patchwork, red and orange and yellow with a hint of brown and green … autumn colours.
‘I’m very fond of you,’ Dwalin said. Oh, no. Oh drat. He could feel his face warming up. What was he, a child? He hadn’t blushed in over a century.
Bilbo’s eyes widened just a fraction, and his mouth opened, then closed.
‘Fonder than I would be of a friend,’ Dwalin specified, trying to keep his face at least partially in shadow, to hide the blush.
Bilbo pressed his toes with his other foot, shifted his weight, and seemed to wonder how to respond. Dwalin prepared himself to turn and walk away, to give Bilbo the night to think about it. Bilbo, once again, had other ideas.
Bilbo took a step forward until his toes were between Dwalin’s boots. Then he leaned up, and placed a gentle, unsure kiss at the corner of Dwalin’s mouth. Dwalin paused, caught completely off-guard. Dwarves didn’t usually kiss until the first few weeks of courting had been carried out. Well-to-do dwarves didn’t, anyway. Society dwarves like Dori would probably faint out of shock.
Bilbo began to retreat. Dwalin was having none of that. He put his hands on Bilbo’s waist and followed his mouth, tilting his head a little to compensate and offered his own sure, firm kiss. A second’s hesitation, and then Bilbo’s arms were wrapped around his shoulders, Bilbo was leaning up, and it felt wonderfully as if they were apologizing to each other for the miserable first attempt earlier that day at communicating their feelings. This was better. This was perfect.
Dwalin ended up holding Bilbo tightly around the middle, Bilbo pressed against him as if they were lovers already, and Dwalin was surprised (pleasantly) because Bilbo had always seemed like such a proper hobbit, and here he was kissing him as if there was a delicious cake hidden somewhere in Dwalin’s mouth.
When they finally pulled away, Bilbo was panting slightly, and Dwalin was already making a list of things in his mind he’d like to do to make Bilbo pant some more.
‘I’m willing to try if you are,’ Bilbo said, and it was so obvious and unnecessary that Dwalin chuckled. Then, just to be sure Bilbo knew, he nodded.
‘Me too.’
Bilbo grinned. Dwalin didn’t bother returning to his own bedroll that night.