Work Text:
Carol of the Bells
The friend this was written for will notice while reading
He wondered whether he was a stalker.
If he ever noticed him, his permanent shadow, he would surely go to the police and have him arrested for stalking. And Thorin would understand it. He would just be protecting his family from that weird guy that was following them around.
He had tried to stop it, yes, he had. It hadn’t worked.
One could think that Dresden was a city big enough to not cross the same people’s paths over and over again, but it wasn’t. He had once made it to the two weeks mark, living his life without the fair-haired man, but then he had walked right into Thorin’s favorite coffee shop and ordered a sugar free chai latte with soy milk. He hadn’t seen Thorin then, but Thorin had listened to him telling the barista about his day at work and his two daughters, Lotte, 5, Elli, 7, and his wife Christina. It was as if the universe was pushing him into Thorin’s life again and again, making it even more painful for him to live without seeing the man smile at least once a week.
Still, today had been an accident. He had really planned to leave the Bagginses alone during the holidays, granting them some private, unobserved family life. He hadn’t even gone to the Christmas market on his own, the others had invited him, had dragged him to the market and filled him with spicy glühwein and strudel even though he had wanted to stay in, read and watch the world turn without him.
It had gotten cold as soon as December had knocked on their door. The first snow had fallen last night, the night of St. Nickolas, a small holiday the Germans celebrated on December 6th honoring a man that looked a lot like Santa Claus and must once have been his predecessor. He hadn’t get used to German holidays since he had moved to Dresden three years ago, but there was a British Club for immigrants from the isles that helped him pass the more lonely times and most of the time he forgot about the differences.
“I’m gonna be right back,” he slapped his best friend Graham on the back and left the table sielntly, his eyes on the crowd.
He felt how Graham and Adam looked after him, listening to the others still but wondering about his swift departure.
None of them knew about the blonde man and Thorin’s ‘stalking-activities’, so he left the table almost unquestioned, following the familiar blonde curls through the crowd.
He had spotted him only moments ago, his heart skipping the usual beat and paining him right after as if someone had stabbed him with a knife. He had swallowed when he had seen how his hand was holding onto the hand of a little, blonde girl in a white coat. He had tried to see whether there was a woman or another girl around them, but they had seemed to be alone. It felt new and uncomfortable still, Thorin had never seen his daughters or his wife. Bilbo had, by chance, always been alone when he had followed him after work or for little strolls.
A cold chill crept up his back and his shoulders cramped.
He sometimes wondered if Bilbo remembered too. If he would recognize him, should he ever notice him. If he remembered their time together – and all the things he had done wrong. How he had cast him out and shunned him. If he would forgive him. As useless as it was, hope never left him.
Thorin stopped as Bilbo and his daughter came to stand before a little stall with stuffed animals. The blonde man took the little girl up into his arms so she could reach for a white, stuffed dragon that smiled widely at her.
He wanted to be happy for him, he really did. But how could he? The world had changed so much and even though he had grown up in it, he was lost, forlorn without his burglar. Not even the others could stuff that hole he had torn open wide in his heart. And here Bilbo was, already happily married, living his life apart from him with his family and all Thorin had wished for him.
When he saw how Bilbo handed the woman behind the stall a few Euros and his daughter hugged him and her new dragon, Thorin slowly turned around and left them, pulling his scarf up to his mouth and nose, hiding his face and dropping his glare to the muddy ground. Wistful and heavy-hearted he slowly made his way back to the stall with the glühwein and his friends. He felt tired then and utterly useless then, his feet growing cold on the wet ground. Around him, strange people were laughing and cheering loudly. He had started snowing again.
Soft, white flakes were groggily dancing down from the skies and landing on his blue coat, where they melted almost unnoticed by its owner.
He was deep in his thoughts, trying to stop pitying himself, the glühwein-stall already in eyesight, when he heard a loud, jarring cry right behind him. He looked over his shoulder, but there was no one the cry could have come from. Not until he looked down at last and saw a little blonde girl in a white coat, reaching for a white dragon in the snow, howling loudly.
Thorin bent down in an instant, reaching for the dragon and giving it to her.
That was when he first saw her face.
She looked just like him, with her beautiful eyes and blonde curls. She had his nose too, and his mouth. Even if he hadn’t met him yet, he was sure she would have made Thorin remember it all.
“Are you alright?” He asked in broken German, clearing his throat to speak more clearly.
“He’s all muddy now,” she cried, looking at her dragon and Thorin let out a silent huff.
Bloody Dragons.
“Where’s your Dad?” he asked, looking around and only noticing now, that Bilbo wasn’t with her.
The girl looked down, brushing the tears from her eyes and taking Thorin’s hand to get up. When she stood, Thoirn notice that her left knee was bleeding and that she didn’t put any weight on the left food.
“Does it hurt?” He calmly asked, but she only shook her head.
Brave. Very brave.
“Where did you last see your Dad?” He added.
“At the toys,” she pressed her dragon to her chest.
Thorin took her little hand, looking through the crowd down the street, attempting to find her father, something he was rather used to by now and afraid of all the same. They only walked slowly through the falling snow, the girl, it must be Lotte, Thorin thought, she looked too young to be seven already, limbed next to him, looking down and still losing some tears.
What Thorin was looking for, eventually came from behind them.
It was a loud, male voice, yelling the girl’s name, and yes, it was Lotte, but looking into another direction.
Thorin didn’t dare speaking. He wasn’t prepared for this, he had never even debated talking to him, but he had to now, there was no way around it.
“Over here!” He raised his voice to not be confused with a kidnapper.
He took Lotte up, carrying her the last steps towards her father who came rushing towards them, face relieved and worried all the same.
“Where have you been, pumpkin, I told you not to run away!”
Thorin was glad he wasn’t looking at him but only taking the crying girl into his arms, calming her down and eyeing the now brown and soaked dragon.
Thorin was almost tempted to nod and walk away - his heart was pounding so loud he was afraid he might hear it, and he was sure he couldn’t bear looking at Bilbo's face without hiding behind a tree.
But then it was all too late and he was staring right into his eyes, is face all soft and thankful.
Soft and thankful until it all swam away, his eyes widening in surprise – no, shock – his mouth gaping slightly open and all of his features falling apart.
A silent “No” was everything he was able to say, his daughter still crying loudly in his arms, "that can't be".
Thorin’s breath stuck in his throat and his heart stopped beating. A cold chill ran down his spine.
This couldn't be possible, this couldn't be real.
He had lived through this moment thousands of times: He had seen himself collapse before Bilbo's eyes, he had seen himself losing his mind or his voice, but not a single time had he thought Bilbo would ever, maybe, maybe, actually ... recognize him. On a Christmas Market in Dresden, Germany, with his daughter in his arms of all places and times. And he had never anticipated that it would be Bilbo to speak first.
“You were dead,” he peeped, eyes almost wet.
“I’m sorry,” Thorin replied silently, “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have…” he was already turning around, running away when he felt a hand on his arm, a calming hand he had missed for the longest time.
“Don’t, please don’t run away again,” he heard his pleading voice.
There were tears in Bilbo’s eyes now, he could see them, and it all felt so perfectly bedlam and scattershot with little Lotte on his arm, still sobbing, and strange people passing them by while the snow didn’t stop falling and a slight breeze springing up.
And still, within the blink of an eye he had stepped closer, putting one arm around Bilbo’s empty shoulder and pressing his face into the smaller man’s messy, blonde hairs and closing his fast watering eyes when he felt Bilbo’s hand on his back, buring his face in Thorin's coat.
Somewhere far away carollers started to hum the Carol of the Bells.