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He was not sulking.
And he had not been glaring.
Or huffing.
He had not even batted an eyelash.
Not that he was prone to indulge himself in anything so entirely unkingly but it was the principle of the thing and he had not comported himself in any manner that did not do credit to the Line of Durin, no matter what the quelling little look shot at him by his advisor had seemed to suggest.
It had just been the light.
Quite.
It had made Balin, a dwarf proud in his race´s traditions, who was very much content to remain where any being in possession of even the barest amount of common sense should wish to reside (namely IN the mountain) – squint.
Lightly.
Not being used to all the – light.
Yes.
That.
The light.
And the sunshine.
Both redundant and it was only natural that the blasted elves -
And the only pair of eyelashes he had ever been interested in in his long life were to be found on an entirely insufferable, exasperating, bossy, ridiculously adorable half-
The king pinched his forehead.
It was the ears.
He was in no way enamoured by their presence on his hosts´ forms but he could not but recall that one brief moment in Lake Town and how suddenly irresistible the strange shape had seemed on a much smaller, softer form and how he had been tempted to -
Bilbo had left him.
The hobbit – their hobbit – had gone back to his beloved Shire.
And Thorin could not blame him.
Even though he had blamed him.
Woundedly, speakingly and derisively.
But the hobbit should have known – must have known – that he had not meant any of it!
That it had merely – violently and to his very chore, and more than any of his severe physical wounds - hurt him to learn that the Company´s burglar was set on leaving the mountain. Tent. Tents. Close to the mountain. The temporary dwarven tent settlement at the foot of the mountain they had only just reclaimed and fought a terrible battle over quickly established so that the wounded could be cared for and the mountain´s halls be readied and cleared for the return of its first residents.
The dragon had left -
Mahal knew how long it would take to get rid of that stench.
And when he thought of the bout of sneezing all that dust had given him upon first entering the royal chambers …
And his nose was most certainly not delicate!
He still owed Dwalin that punch.
Thorin sighed.
He had not meant any of the things he had said; he had not even meant them during the moment he had thrown them into his shocked and increasingly sad burglar´s face (instead of apologising and begging for the hobbit´s forgiveness and offering him everything that he was and entreat him to stay, with him, and -) but the thought of losing the hobbit when he had not even been able to fully make amends for his actions on the battlements and all his other failings towards one he had come to lo-
He had dropped the hand that had lifted to reach for the one that had walked into the tent at last upon the pronouncement and had turned his head away, dismissing the gentle, brave little creature with a flick of a bandaged wrist, advising him to not lose another moment that could be spent with his precious books and armchair and garden and leave those who had more serious concerns – like attempting to remain alive – to the same.
It had been low.
And Thorin regretted it all.
He would have taken it all back the moment he woke again from his healing sleep and his first thoughts were those of a certain hobbit but he learned that that hobbit had made good on his promise and had departed for the kindly west after having visited the king´s injured heirs and assuring himself that they would both live.
Bilbo had wept, according to his spy master, if silently, when Kili, barely awake, had practically crawled into the hobbit´s lap and had begged him to stay until his brother should be awake and their uncle would be crowned and Thorin had been very much aware that Kili had not quite forgiven him his treatment of one both his boys had come to consider family during the quest yet...
He had thrown himself into restoring Erebor, had embraced the return of its people – his sister amongst the first caravans setting out from Ered Luin, who had not hesitated, once inspecting him for lasting damage and having thrown herself at his still somewhat afflicted chest, to cuff him for his disproportional idiocy and stupidity and recklessness and you almost killed my sonsThorin! - which had not only made him wince and lower his eyes in shame but reminded him once more of all his many failings.
He had lost Bilbo – to have also lost Fili and Kili -
He had not written.
He was not known to be a dwarf of words.
How could he possibly bring to paper the words that would speak of his regret and his grief and the ever present shame and the all consuming love that filled his being and had become his nightly companion?
And Bilbo Baggins, his brave, beautiful burglar -
The king grimaced.
The hobbit would have loved the Golden Wood.
~ ~ ~ ~
He did not think he would ever openly admit to it but he might even have more of an affinity for it than Rivendell.
And he was exceptionally fond of Rivendell and meant to take up its Lord on his very kind offer to visit on his return journey and spend a few weeks exploring its gardens and its famous library but Lothlórien …
Its beauty was both earthly and ethereal and Bilbo Baggins would be a very content hobbit whiling an afternoon or two away with a cup of tea at his side while he perused a book on elven lore, his furry feet dangling from his perch in the little grove he had found wandering around before dinner the evening of his arrival and skimming the crystal clear, refreshing water with his toes.
Yes, he would be content.
Even more so if he could escape the ever watchful eyes of Lothlórien´s Marchwarden – really, Haldir, and he had come to like the stoic, unrelenting elf (he may be short and soft-footed but that did most certainly not mean that he was prone to losing his way along the way, that was the expertise of quite another stubborn being that this hobbit preferred to not think about lest he should feel that silly little pang in the general region of his altogether too impressionable heart again, thank you very much!) tended to take his mother hen duty quite a tad too far! (and Bilbo was not entirely certain that the unmoveable elf was not labouring under largely self-inflicted severity, even if he had insisted that it had been the Lady of the Golden Wood who had entrusted her guest´s well-being to him).
He was nearly as pigheaded as Thor-
Yes, well.
Not that Bilbo was at all thinking of a Certain Dwarf.
Certainly not.
In fact, he had had much and many more important things to do than let his thoughts wander and ponder to what that rude, obstinate, direction and manners-challenged dwarf king might be doing under that probably not so lonely any longer mountain of his.
Was Thorin well?
He hoped that all his wounds had healed, properly, and that none of them gave him any trouble and if they did that that stupid oaf would know when to listen to his healers and rest and let others shoulder some of his burdens.
Ah well, he supposed he could find out if there was any cause for him to worry (not that he was worried but it would only be polite given, you know, they had been companions on a journey and had fought together and all that. And what had very nearly happened in Lake Town had better stay in Lake Town, thank you kindly), if he did some subtle and inconspicuous poking, once the dwarven delegation arrived.
Or he could just -
Hide.
That felt like quite an excellent notion, too.
Because as it happened, the delegation was to be Ereborian.
Which was just his poor luck.
Oh, he missed his friends – Fili and Kili´s harebrained pranks and even the insufferable puppy eyes, Ori´s quiet excitement when stumbling upon a new hobbitish idiosyncrasy (and weren´t they cute, his dwarves!), Bombur and his quite hobbitish approach to meal times, even Dwalin´s gentle pats on his back that tended to make one poor hobbit find himself more intimately acquainted with the floor than they generally had any wish to be.
He missed all of them.
Even their King who had sneered and turned his regal back to him and had probably upset his many stitches and set back his convalescence a good number of weeks because that would just be typical of one Thorin Oakenshield, King under the bloody Mountain. Bilbo had never met anyone as idiotic and contrary as that particular dwarf!
And he could only attribute the very bad idea that had been falling quite firmly, hopelessly in love with said particular dwarf to the novelty of it because – really!
Not that it mattered because he had first been banished and when he had gone to assure the slowly healing king, finally being granted admission to the royal tent after waiting and hoping in worry and fear for days, that he did not mean to defy the order and had been making preparations for his track back to the Shire (and if he had silently hoped that the banishment would be revoked and that his affections might be returned that was quite his own, private, personal, not at all of interest to anyone else affair and certainly not in the least the concern of said anyone else!) he had been confirmed in his suspicion that he had not been forgiven for stealing that horrible stone and was still considered a betrayer, despite what had happened on the battlefield and how close the dwarf had been to death so -
Well, there they were.
Quite a bit of water down that river and all that.
Although he would at the very least have liked to get quite a few more words in, that morning in that tent.
Well.
No use crying over spilled milk.
Even if he had done quite a bit of that.
Only over tea.
And scones.
And the odd cupcake.
Or two.
Which he had promised to make for those princelings once the mountain would be reclaimed and -
Bilbo sighed, letting his eyes drift across the small pool and into the glistening red-golden leaves and trees.
It was just that in all those months that had passed since his return from his great adventure and missing his dwarves so very horribly he had felt a sense of disquiet. He had returned a changed hobbit, much like Gandalf had predicted him to be if he should come back, and he found the solitude and the silence, the curiosity and the gossiping, the endless monotony of the quiet, unexciting, undisturbed life in the Shire lacking.
Which meant that he had practically pounced upon learning that a representative would have to be chosen who be forced to travel to the far elven realm to participate in negotiations of new trade routes and options among the races of Middle Earth.
Bilbo Baggins had pounced – the rest of Hobbiton (and the entire Shire) had sighed in relief. Going on an adventure indeed! And with no assurance of the requisite seven meals being offered every day! No, thank you, they had all concluded – but for the odd Took or so – best to have one already afflicted and slightly mad hobbit set out on a pony, there was really, absolutely no need to lead another member of their respectable race astray.
Those negotiations were set to begin that very afternoon.
Which meant that this hobbit had better go and get ready.
Starting with a nice, refreshing soak.
It really was quite unnecessarily warm that morning and Haldir had shown him to some more isolated bathing chambers that bore their own hot spring and Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, Shire representative and chief negotiator -
Was very willing to agree to any deal offered to his kind if only he would be promised regular access to that little bit of treasure on Arda.
Fine, he would not but those warm bubbles and the heavenly scented oils and the towels (he was at the very least going to pinch one when the elves weren´t looking because he quite seriously could not do without them anymore) -
Oh yes, that would do very well, thank you.
And if he should happen to close his eyes and doze off and think of a certain dwarf king and his lovely silver-streaked mane and those impossibly strong arms and interestingly hairy chest no-one would be any wiser.
~ ~ ~ ~
Thorin closed his eyes, his head falling back against the door.
A moment later, he pushed himself off, starting the complex business that was removing his ceremonial travelling garb from his person without unceremoniously pulling the whole dispensable ensemble off in one satisfying movement and leave its remains to their own devices.
He disliked the pomp and circumstance that surrounded his position at certain times and had – much to the very evident consternation of the elder members of his council, and the twinkling amusement of his former tutor and most trusted advisor – quickly made away with a number of the most outdated laws and court traditions (one such elderly official had taken it upon himself to rise from his seat and give loud voice to his disapproval of what he judged to be youthful folly and the sad influence of those that, as commendable as their assistance in reclaiming the splendour of Erebor had been, should be rather beneath His Majesty´s notice when it came do its daily governing. Suffice to say, said elderly official had found himself enjoying a prolonged sojourn in the Blue Mountains shortly after.) upon his coronation.
He took particular pleasure in ridding himself off his ornate boots and -
Socks.
Not that either would be considered particular resplendent, perhaps, but to the King of Erebor discarding both meant a strange sense of freedom.
And Bilbo had -
A hint of a smile passed the stern features.
Trust his hobbit to profess admiration for what his race, large and hairy-footed as it was, deemed small and delicate.
There might also have been the use of the words daintily pretty but he had swiftly put a stop to those adulations.
And his ears had most certainly not turned red.
And he would have silenced the ridiculous burglar – determindedly. Repeatedly. - had a knock on the door not announced the eminent presence of one of their company.
If only -
The King shook his head.
His weary, travel-strained body craved relief and he was grateful to the Lady for suggesting to postpone further discussion until later in the day.
The Lady of Lorien had seemed rather sensible.
For an elf.
Having rid himself of the remains of his attire, Thorin swept his long hair into a messy ponytail, fastening the same with a strip of leather, and followed the welcoming steam further into the chamber.
He hoped -
“Thorin!”
~ ~ ~ ~
He could not pretend to be an expert on dwarven laundry and linen; its state, material and preferences, since he had not really spent any time anywhere near any dwarven laundry or linen - or simple cleaning facilities - other than on the road and there all it had amounted to was a quick, unashamed (his ears still burned at the recollection of the very first time he had witnessed thirteen totally shameless and uninhibited dwarves stripping off and Eru be thanked he had had the quickness of mind to cover his eyes with a hand and firmly turn away before he would have seen something that had not been his to see – and he was not talking about the paleness of a certain tattooed and bald warrior´s backside, thank you very much! And it was not nearly as distracting as that what was not, had not been, and would never be his. Not that he had actually seen it but he felt fairly confident that – nope!) wash in any river or watery substance that was obliging enough to cross their path, at least until they had reached Beorn´s home.
(Best not dwell on certain fountain antics in Rivendell.)
So.
Laundry.
Linen.
Towels.
Covering.
And the lack of it on the dwarf that had just walked towards the bubbling pool Bilbo had been happily and undisturbedly soaking in until an eye cracked open at the sound of what appeared to be footsteps and he saw -
He gasped.
Which earned him said dwarf´s immediate attention and -
So what if he had squeaked?
Squeaking was a very natural reaction when faced with all that skin and muscle and – and hair!
Especially when all of it was found on that one, particular, devastatingly handsome dwarf that you had missed so very, very much and -
Must he stand there and gape at him like a -
All his Bagginsish respectability reared up, if a little belatedly, and while it was a little difficult to shoot someone one´s most disapproving and speaking glare when one was ensconced by water – at least up to one´s collarbone – he felt he must have done a pretty good job if it, seeing the dwarf seemed to recollect himself and finally – finally! - reached for one of the really very pleasantly fluffy pieces of fabric that served as towels and -
Wait.
Was he blushing?
He was blushing.
Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under The Mountain, currently very, very naked and very, very lovely, was -
Quite endearingly red.
Or his ears were.
And Bilbo was quite sure so were the dwarf´s cheeks but if he should happen to point that out the dwarf would surely resort to underhand means and blame it on the temperature in the chamber, if he knew him at all.
Right.
So.
That towel really fit rather nicely around those surprisingly narrow hips and -
Thorin.
Thorin was here.
In Lothlórien.
In its bathing chambers.
This bathing chamber.
The one Bilbo had become very fond of and had chosen to relax in because it was unlikely he would be disturbed in them at that time of the day and now the one person he had thought to never see again and had been – yes, he was going to admit it – pining over, despite being very much aware of that person´s many failures and idiosyncracies, was standing there, at the other end of the extremely generously sized pool, staring at him with that unfathomable expression of his.
Right.
Quite.
Well.
At least he was now wearing a towel.
He was not wearing a towel.
Or small clothes.
Or bathing apparel.
Or anything, really.
And as lovely and as refreshing as the hot spring water was, it did not really serve as adequate protection against intense -
“Will you stop staring?”
~ ~ ~ ~
He could not help it.
Surely the exhaustion was to blame for the trick his mind was playing on him because the sight before him was impossible.
There was no possible reason for the hobbit - Bilbo – to be there.
Quite obviously -
Naked.
Bilbo was -
Naked.
With all that lovely, creamy, soft skin on display, waiting to be touched, to be explored, to be cherished and -
He did not approve of it disappearing from his sight so quickly, as tempting as that collarbone was.
There was no reason for the hobbit to feel in any way ashamed of -
Mahal.
Thorin felt himself flush as he quickly made for a shelf that bore a number of towels.
Durin´s beard - he had been gawking at the hobbit while -
Not that he was ashamed of his body.
He wore his scars and inkings with pride, like any dwarf would.
But would a hobbit find them pleasing?
Did Bilbo Baggins look at the stark reminders of his battles and hardships with admiration or did the hard, sharp contours of his body, liberally coated with hair as it was, and that evidence of what his life had been disgust one who was so very different and almost exotic in his own appearance?
Beautiful.
He had to -
“Will you stop staring?”
~ ~ ~ ~
“Turn around. Please.”
“Master Baggins -”
“Turn. Around.”
“Burglar -”
“Fine, then close your eyes.”
“Hobbit -”
“Oh just go away, Thorin.”
~ ~ ~ ~
“No.”
~ ~ ~ ~
If the hobbit wanted to be rid of him then the hobbit would have to leave.
The hobbit had proven himself as very apt at leaving those who wanted him to stay so he could remove his bare, hairless form (which Thorin was not trying to get a better glimpse of!) from the pool and pick up one of the towels (did he bring that ill-favoured, flimsy piece of cloth that he insisted to be a robe perhaps? Should he risk a glance -) and dry himself off and let Thorin assist him and -
He had come for a bath, he would have a bath.
No matter what any fussy, deserting, unfeeling halfling he desperately wanted to press against his own nakedness had to say about it.
Thick, callused fingers made quick work of the towel-knot and the dwarf king moved towards the stairs that disappeared into the pool, firmly ignoring the outraged gasp that came from its other end.
He lowered himself into the pleasing warmth and instantly felt some of the soreness in his muscles dissipate.
Hm.
Apparently there was something to be said for elven frivolity after all.
Even if he had not intention of dousing his body in any of the flowery scents available to his person.
He had no doubt that the hobbit would show no such inhibitions.
He hoped the hobbit would favour a slightly more earthly scent.
Something more -
Fresh.
Like Bilbo himself.
Fresh and unique and close -
Thorin stopped in his massaging of his bad arm mid-way and quickly turned, to find himself snorting nose to chest with his burglar.
His very disgruntled burglar.
~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~
And this hobbit very likely now had a broken nose.
Or at least a bruised one.
Swollen, if it came to it.
Really, why were there no books on the matter of the sturdiness of the solid, muscled surface that was a dwarven front?
It was like socialising with a rock.
Not that he minded socialising per se, not in the least – Belladonna Took had brought up a very proper, well-mannered, sociable, respectable resident of Hobbiton, thank you very much for asking! (Fine, but even if he had found himself wishing the Sackville-Bagginses of the Shire consigned to Mordor at times – you´d think that no-one could have a greater fondness for jewellery and silver than dwarves, but no! - his dear cousin Lobelia had to be first in everything – that could still be counted as natural, self-preserving reactions and every hobbit was allowed his oddity!) - but he´d quite like to come out of any nearer encounters unharmed. And to be asked whether he wished to participate in them!
He had most certainly not been enquired of whether he wished to inspect a Certain Dwarven Surface up close!
He considered himself a sensible, rather accommodating hobbit most of the time so if he had been asked he might have been prevailed upon and would have agreed to make its closer acquaintance with his, uhm, hands but really, his nose?
Bilbo swatted at the hand that had come up to steady him.
He glared up at the dwarf king from under his wet bangs.
“If Your Majesty would just move aside a little, I will be happy to leave this pool.”
The dwarf just stared at him.
And kept staring.
Bilbo was sorely tempted to roll his eyes only his wet bangs were rather in the way at that present moment so the effect would be quite lost upon that – that -
His - still very bare but he was fast losing the will to bother about that – shoulders drooped a little.
That was not how he had envisioned a possible reunion with the king.
Not that he had often – well not very, very often – envisioned ever seeing any of his dwarves again, least of all this particularly lovely if apparently somewhat mentally deficient exemplary (really, first banishing a hobbit and then walking into a pool that contained said hobbit without so much as by that hobbit´s leave and then standing in that hobbit´s way when that hobbit tried to remove himself from one´s presence so as to keep with the rules of said banishment... addle-brained, that´s what it was! Clearly too many rocks in that head! Amongst other things.), but if there should have been any further meeting he would have thought quite a lot more dignity would have been involved.
And – fabric.
Of the unflimsy, non-fluffy kind.
If only he had thought to bring his robe on the journey!
Handkerchiefs were all very well (yes, he had remembered to bring one this time, thank you!) but really not very useful when larger surfaces than a nose – dwarven or hobbit-sized – came into it.
Eru, he was still naked.
And it did not even seem to bother the dwarf!
Really.
Could he not at least pretend -
Elves were really a lot more courteous!
Not that he cared to be seen in his current clothes-less state by one of the First Born (Haldir´s surprisingly mobile brow would probably rise to never before seen heights and that would just be – yes, well) but he felt quite certain an elf would at least feign embarrassment or – yes, he was very much aware how entirely ludicrous that thought was but -
Right.
Spilled milk and all that.
He was simply going to remove himself and find another, rather more deserted hideout, or possible have a nice little bath in his room. It was a very nice room, after all. Even if a little too high up for his hobbitish preference. How strange that the elves of Lothlórien liked to have their homes built in between and up in trees...
And he was going to ask Haldir to keep any dwarves from him who weren´t even fully clothed!
~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~
Bilbo could not quite believe -
Was that dwarf -
Really -
Well, he could not quite tap his foot and the effect of hands on one´s hips was rather effect-less if they were completely submerged by water but what he could and was very much going to do was -
And it was so much more satisfying than using one´s nose, too!
Which meant, of course, that he had to take to it again.
And -
Again.
In case he had not quite brought his point across the first time.
Or two.
And there was something oddly calming and de-bewildering in the occupation, too!
Must that great, big lump just stand there and just, well, stare?
Dwarves and their complete lack of communication skills!
If he should ever find himself even remotely tempted to trot back to that confounded mountain it would only be because he felt he owed it to all the other races on Middle Earth to educate those rock-headed beings on the subject of – of diplomacy!
Because frankly, right then, right there in that very big, very wet, very much fabric-less elven hot springs, it took all his very own diplomatic skills to not just pull the other pool occupant – who was still blocking his escape route, the insufferable, rude creature! - down by his braids and kiss the -
Yes, well.
He was just a hobbit.
A very confused, very exasperated, very dwarf-deprived hobbit.
But Thorin had just said -
Bilbo stopped his finger from where it was happily and pointedly poking that particular dwarven chest and scowled.
“You banished me.”
He saw the dwarf open his mouth and then close it again, only for the same to open once more and -
“You left.”
Hobbit arms rose up in the air and began to flail, splashing a rather substantial amount of water around and Bilbo hoped some of it would hit the stupid, repetitive dwarf right in his stupidly handsome face because really -
“You. Banished. Me. Of course I left! You made it very clear that my presence was both unwelcome and undesired and that I had committed a crime of unprecedented order and that nothing I could say or do would convince you that I only meant to protect you and then I came to see you after days of worrying that you might die before I could make amends and you just wave your sprained wrist at me and tell me to enjoy my books and my garden and I can´t believe I´m discussing this with you while I´m bloody nak- now that is really unfair!”
~ ~ ~ ~
Deeply.
His forehead was gently resting against the hobbit´s and he had to close his eyes at the sheer feeling of rightness and peace that nearly overwhelmed him and made him weak at the knees.
He was not going to use this to drag the hobbit down with him (or rather – out of the now entirely redundant pool and onto the floor where he would lower himself so that their entire bodies would touch without any superfluous barriers between them and -) and claim an old battle injury as the reason for clinging to the smaller form, no matter how enticing that concept seemed at that very moment but he would -
He had felt the hobbit tense, the scolding coming to an abrupt halt, the moment their heads had knocked together but when he lifted his own only to lower it to that tempting little crook -
Fine, he probably should not have done that.
Likely should not have done that.
Very likely should not have done that.
Should not have done that at all, if he had any respect for his station and the other´s sensibilities.
And the situation, as it were.
Which was a little peculiar.
When he thought about it.
Only it was somewhat hard to think at all with a warm, soft, naked hobbit almost chest to chest with one; a little index finger taking to something that the exasperating creature likely considered poking when it was just terribly endearing -
He buried his nose in the hobbit´s neck and inhaled.
Mahal.
If he only had this, this one brief moment, he would treasure it always and -
“We need to talk.”
~ ~ ~ ~
“Well then you should just have kept still, shouldn´t you, but no -” The hobbit huffed as he continued to knead the particularly resistant accumulation of tissue that had formed a knot, albeit a little more gently. “You had to turn your head and – umpf!”
And that hand had come up again and pulled his face down to that level again and he was currently being very thoroughly, very consumingly, very passionately kissed. Again.
Honestly, that –
It wasn´t enough that he had looked at one with those very intense, very blue, very arresting eyes when he spoke of his failures and his errors and his very great regret and shame and his hope – much as he knew he did not deserve it – (and in that deep, rumbling, shiver-inspiring rudely appealing voice of his!) - for one´s forgiveness; no, that silly, communication-challenged dwarf had decided to go all cuddly and touching on this unprepared hobbit and was, at that very moment, acting entirely un-Thorinish, as his nephews liked to refer to the king´s rare and endearing lapses into, well, un-Thorinish mannerisms.
Bilbo had had to threaten to place himself well out of His Majesty´s reach and equally well within that of a certain Marchwarden (whom the King under the Mountain had taken a violent dislike to, solely on the information that he had been Looking After His Hobbit - “That elf is stalking you?! - “Haldir has been very kindly looking out for me.” - “Yavanna save me from the stubbornness of dwarves! You are only wearing a towel, you are absolutely not going out there to challenge that poor elf – did you actually bring Orcrist into the baths?! Eru, Thorin, you -” ) at the celebratory dinner that night. And that was only to get that great, big, beautiful but clearly sore lump of a dwarf onto the bed that was set up in a smaller chamber which adjoined the one that held the pool and really, you´d think it would be understood that the hobbit you had just declared your Everything and entreated to return to Erebor with you and who had – because he was a very impressionable hobbit with a strange, incurable penchant for absolutely abominable, exasperating dwarf kings who gave one to understand they wanted one to remove themselves from their sight forever when they were just half mad with pain and fear and shock – and they would so work on those communication skills, oh, how the would be working on them! Physically as well as mentally. Yes, well – he was smitten so there - agreed to make the journey in your loving company had no plans to be the cause of your untimely demise and -
Honestly.
His hands were much too small and certainly too weak for any of that strangling nonsense, which would be altogether too unrefined and witless a method of homicide, thank you, so all that tensing when said hands came close to your broad neck -
He would make the dwarf lie still and let him get on with that massage and the dwarf would like it!
Bilbo certainly did.
Well, all that solid, dwarven muscle (some time he would have to investigate that lovely little hollow on the dwarf´s lower back with his nose...) and those small tremblings and fluttery eyelashes and the knowledge that he was the means of giving his poor love relief -
Only he was very glad that his elven minder – or any other who could be referred to as among the First Born – was not currently present anywhere near the baths.
Although with that famed elven hearing …
Maybe he should go for precaution and silence those groans with his mouth?
And those noises.
Just to -
Well, you know.
It would only be polite.
The ears of an elf were very sensitive.
It would all be for a greater cause.
And if there were a little selfishness involved -
Thorin would not be the one to tell of it.
Since he would be otherwise, uhm, engaged.
And those noises really should be forbidden.
Because they tended to do things to a hobbit.
Which he was going to inform his dwarf of.
Once he had learned them all.