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Bilbo knew as soon as he and Thorin woke up in the morning, grumbling (one of them far more than the other), unwilling to give up the last vestiges of warmth. He saw it in the way Thorin’s eyes tracked him as he got ready, following even more closely than usual. Then they lingered outside their chambers for far too long saying goodbye -- Bilbo had to use the same sort of tone designated for Fili, Kili, and particularly aggravating relatives for Thorin to finally see reason and go be King .
As Bilbo turned to head into his office, Thorin abruptly seized him by the shoulders, hauled him in close, and pressed their foreheads together for a few long minutes. Bilbo flushed and tried to ignore the giggling of passing servants. He worked hard for their respect, though everyone had assured him it would be freely granted; there was nothing like a particularly clingy husband to foil his efforts. Again.
“Oh dear,” Bilbo murmured, running his hand over Thorin’s hair. “It is that time again, isn’t it. You seem a little further along than last time.”
“Then it would be foolish for me to work,” Thorin said, pressing forward, almost toppling Bilbo over with his weight.
Huffing, Bilbo pushed him away. “You baby,” he said, with more affection than he intended. “Today’s for getting things in order. After that, well. We’ll have all the time in the world.”
“A whole week to ourselves.”
“Hopefully shorter.” At Thorin’s puppy eyes, Bilbo sighed. “Or a week. A week sounds lovely, dear.”
An entire week with a cuddliest, clingiest version of a cuddly, clingy dwarf. Yavanna had, Bilbo thought, taught him quite the lesson on being careful for what you wish for. With that rather ungracious thought, Bilbo gave his husband one last smile, walked back into their rooms, and shut the heavy wooden door right in Thorin’s lovely face.
-
The first time it happened was around a month after the reclaiming of Erebor, barely two weeks after Thorin’s recovery. It had, quite frankly, scared the living daylights out of not just Bilbo, but of Dís and Balin and Fili and Kili and the whole rest of the Company. Goldsickness. Malevolent and lingering as it was, the others had theorized that it would never leave Thorin’s mind, not completely. Though not as severe as the first time, Bilbo still had to endure nine nerve-wracking days of seeing Thorin linger by the vault doors and fixate on the jewelry adorning other dwarrow.
They didn’t need to fight another war to snap Thorin out of it. On the ninth day, during a tense night in their bedroom, Thorin had suddenly taken a deep breath, as though waking from a deep sleep, and his eyes were clear again. The look on his face when he had learned what happened made Bilbo want to unsheath Sting and kill a thousand orcs all over again.
It became routine surprisingly quickly. After a while, Thorin would grow surly once more, and Balin, Fili, and Dís would take charge once Thorin’s opinions on diplomatic relations veered into the “close down Erebor forever so no one can steal our gold” territory.
As for Bilbo, well, he would stay with Thorin when the paranoia overwhelmed his senses and he allowed no one else by his side. It helped, Thorin would tell him later. Bilbo helped, when he curled against Thorin at night and kissed him in the mornings. He was thus dubbed “Thorin handler” (as if that wasn’t his unofficial title already) and would stay with his then-suitor, now-husband until the sickness passed.
Over the years, the goldsickness loosened its grip on Thorin, but it also… evolved. Maybe it was a result of their proximity during Thorin’s sick days, maybe it was a natural manifestation of their growing relationship. The time between the periods of goldsickness lengthened from a month, to two months, to three, and the duration shortened from nine days, to eight, to seven.
And instead of fixating on gold, Thorin’s dragon-sick eyes fell upon Bilbo himself.
-
Bilbo’s work for the morning involved reading and responding to several letters: updates on Laketown’s expansion from Bard, trade reports from the Iron Hills, and a monthly package of letters from the Shire. He smiled as he read through a particularly eager note from Frodo, whose writing involved big letters and plenty of exclamation points.
After Frodo’s parents had died, Bilbo had returned to the Shire for a year to care for him. Spurred on by the relative newness of their marriage and the advice of their friends, wary of a bout of goldsickness without Bilbo, Thorin had followed. Without many gems, precious metals, or gold to tempt him there, Thorin’s “Bilbo-sickness” had only solidified.
“Why won’t Uncle Thorin come and play?” Frodo asked, big blue eyes peering upwards.
“Well, dear boy, Thorin is a little sick right now, and needs me to stay close.”
“Does he have a cold?”
Muffling a laugh at Frodo’s bewildered expression, Bilbo shook his head. “It’s as if… as if he feels very hungry all the time, and he only feels full if I stay next to him.”
It was like a lightbulb lit up above Frodo’s head. “Like blackberry pie,” he declared.”
“Yes,” Bilbo said, suddenly overcome with a wave of affection for this inquisitive, wonderful young fauntling. “Exactly like that.”
He took second breakfast over the mail, having been quite literally spoon-fed first breakfast by Thorin, but made his way down to the kitchens to see Bombur, who immediately sat Bilbo down to give him elevenses.
“So,” Bombur said, after Bilbo had finished tucking into some excellently-grilled fish, “not that I don’t enjoy seeing you down here, Bilbo, but something tells me you’re here for other reasons.”
“That ‘something’ would be right. It’s that time again, I’m afraid.”
“Ah.” With an understanding nod, Bombur turned to bark orders in Khuzdul to a passing dwarf, who immediately turned and scurried deeper into the kitchen. Though he tried not to look as if he were listening, Bilbo knew that the cooks would soon know to prepare the king’s “special meal plan” in the coming days.
“If you could send up dinner tonight, Bombur, that would be most appreciated. Some fruits and snacks too.”
“Of course,” Bombur said. He then sighed, leaned back, and fixed Bilbo with the same meaningful look many tried to do in the days leading up to Thorin’s sick days. “Bilbo, we’re forever grateful--” He paused when Bilbo motioned him to stop.
Though he tried to give Bombur a kind smile, the look on the other’s face let him know he was mostly unsuccessful in doing so. “Bombur,” Bilbo said, “you should know by now that I’m not doing this out of obligation, or for your thanks. I’m doing this because he’s my husband, and I- well, I love him.”
Bombur heaved a great, gusty sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
With a shake of his head, Bilbo gave another, much more genuine smile. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
They sat in silence for a bit, just taking in the bustle of the kitchens, hectic in preparation for the upcoming lunch. A new shipment of grain had just come in, and ever since Bilbo baked his first fruit pie in Erebor’s ovens, the unfortunate dwarrow cooks had yet another recipe on their to-do list.
“He hates it,” Bombur said abruptly.
“I know,” Bilbo said. If Bombur’s word wasn’t enough, Thorin’s hoarse apologies after every bout of sickness were. After Thorin’s goldsickness had started fixating on Bilbo, they had had a long conversation about how relieved Thorin was to not feel the lure of gold, but how he loathed to think of Bilbo as a captive or worse, an object.
“I’m surprised you’re not sick and tired of him , if I’m being honest. Even Gloin can’t stay with his wife for seven days straight, and she’s all he talks about.”
“We’re both a little sick of each other by the end,” Bilbo said, “but that’s why we stay apart for a few days after that. Thorin goes out with the boys and I’m either with Ori or, well,”
“Down here,” Bombur finished for him. He rose to his feet and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. “You’re always welcome. Now, I don’t mean to usher you out, but there's a luncheon to be served.”
“Thank you, Bombur,” Bilbo said, and they smiled at each other before Bilbo went back upstairs, still pleasantly full from the fish but thinking about lunch all the same.
-
The rest of the day passed in a blur, marked only by the scorching heat of Thorin’s eyes whenever the two managed to run into each other. They ate lunch pressed side by side, Bilbo dutifully ignoring the snickering of Fili and Kili whenever Thorin demanded a forkful of meat off of his plate. Then he had a lovely cup of tea with Ori, who wasted no time in launching into the latest drama occurring within the Scribes’ Guild.
Bilbo was a Baggins, perfectly respectable and in no way inclined to petty gossip. But he was also Consort of Erebor, and if this was how he learned about his subjects, well. He set the standards for respectability here.
Then there was more work: translations of manuscripts, from Khuzdul to Westron, then hopefully to Sindarin.
And then, an hour and a half before Thorin was due to return, Bilbo set his work to the side, slipped out of his chair, and began his preparations.
First, he changed the bedsheets and swapped their blankets for the lightest set possible, fully aware of Thorin’s tendency to run hotter than a furnace during goldsickness. Afterwards, he set a comb and the book he and Thorin were reading together on the table next to their bed, in easy reach should Bilbo be unable to get up. Then, he received the food he was promised from the kitchen. The dinner and cookies, he set in front of the fire; the fruit went into a small ice box to keep cool. Finally, Bilbo got himself ready.
A brisk shower left him clean and rosy-cheeked. He didn’t bother to brush most of his hair, but braided in his marriage beads and worked in just enough oil to make combing through it later a breeze, rather than a chore. After changing into his long sleep shirt, Bilbo pulled out his jewelry box and began to rummage through it.
On top of his head went his crown, flowers and leaves made of precious gems sitting upon delicate strands of pure mithril. The last courting gift Thorin made for him, intent on making Bilbo his Consort. Bilbo slipped bangles of silver around his wrists and ankles, given to him as wedding gifts, then several heavy rings on his fingers, all made of either silver or platinum and studded with rubies and sapphires. Around his neck went delicate chains of silver, some with pendants, some without.
And finally, when he was bedecked from head to toe with finery, Bilbo reached into the chest at the foot of their bed and brought out Thorin’s first gift to him: a shirt of woven mithril, as perfect and untouched as the day Thorin first asked him to wear it.
He slipped it on, drawing out the necklaces so that they rested on top of the armor, and padded back out to the sitting room, settling himself onto the sofa to wait for Thorin.
A single knock came at the door, then another when Bilbo didn’t immediately answer.
“I’m coming,” he called. Opening the door a crack, he peered through at Thorin’s face, whose eyes immediately darkened at the sight of the crown on Bilbo’s forehead. “Hello, Dwalin.”
“Consort Baggins.” Dwalin gave an exaggerated bow, then with a wink and a wiggle of his eyebrows, slipped back down the corridor.
With him gone, Bilbo opened the door fully, revealing his state of dress -- or rather, his state of ornamentation. Seeing the jewelry adorning his body, Thorin sucked in a breath and stepped forward into the sitting room, gathering Bilbo in his arms and kicking the door closed behind him. As if Bilbo didn’t do this every time. Didn’t do this for him. He pressed his cheek to Bilbo’s head and inhaled deeply, taking in the sweet scent of Bilbo’s soap.
“Bilbo. Ghivashel . Amrâlimê .”
“Hello, my love.” Bilbo drew back to smile up at his husband. He loved him. And even though the goldsickness worried Thorin, and made the days drag by like honey, he loved the time it gave them together. “Are you hungry?”
“My heart,” Thorin breathed, staring at Bilbo, eyes drinking in his features. He leaned in to rub their noses together. “My Bilbo.”
Bilbo gave him a chaste kiss, then pulled Thorin by the hand to the sofa. “Dinner,” he said. “We can’t have the King of Erebor starve in the company of a hobbit .”
Thorin let himself be dragged across the room, and obediently sat down on the sofa. But his eyes never left Bilbo, and as soon as Bilbo turned to grab their plates, his hands found Bilbo’s hips and lifted him into Thorin’s lap. It was only sheer experience that kept Bilbo from spilling their dinner all over the floor.
Bombur had prepared steamed buns for them, which he had done ever since Bilbo sheepishly admitted his tendency to eat meals perched in Thorin’s lap during his goldsickness. They were filled with ground pork, finely-chopped vegetables, and fragrant herbs from the garden, emitting tantalizing smells as Bilbo lifted one to Thorin’s mouth.
His first bite released a wave of broth that trickled down Bilbo’s wrist. Thorin dutifully followed it with his tongue and lapped up every bit of liquid that had escaped, lifting Bilbo’s arm for ease of access. His eyes hardly left Bilbo’s face, causing Bilbo’s breathing to hitch.
“How is it?” Bilbo asked.
Thorin hummed, hand still curled around Bilbo’s wrist. “Delicious.”
Holding the plate high in the air with one hand, Bilbo managed to wriggle himself around so that he and Thorin were face to face, aided and hindered in equal turns by Thorin’s hands on his hips. They ate the rest of their dinner in this position, feeding buns to one another, brushing their foreheads or lips together between every bite.
By the end of it, Bilbo felt warm and slightly sleepy, the buns sitting heavy in his stomach. Only the jewelry draping his body kept him awake, as well as Thorin himself, who had taken to running his fingers across the mithril shirt, his touch so light that Bilbo could barely feel it through the chainmail.
Without looking behind him, Bilbo set the now-empty plate down onto the table, before sliding off of Thorin’s lap. He headed towards the bedroom, biting his lips to suppress a smile when he heard Thorin hastily follow suit.
“This jewelry is rather heavy,” he mused to himself, acting as though he didn’t hear the whine Thorin released at that comment. “I wonder if there were anyone to help me take it off?”
He was quickly spun around to face Thorin, who got on his knees before Bilbo.
“ Kurdel… Âzyungel… if you would let me-”
“Thorin.” Bilbo reached out and cupped his cheek. “This is for you.”
Eyes wide at Bilbo’s words, Thorin reached up to take Bilbo’s hand in his own, removing it from his cheek and holding it in front of him. Slowly, reverently, he slid each ring off, kissing each finger as it was freed from the bands. He was even gentler as he took the bracelets off of Bilbo’s wrists, brushing his lips over the delicate bones there.
He then pushed Bilbo backwards onto their bed, who promptly scrambled upwards to see what Thorin was doing. His eyes grew wide when Thorin bent down to his feet, coaxing the anklet over each foot.
“Yavanna have mercy,” Bilbo whimpered as Thorin brushed kisses over his calves and ankles, suddenly feeling very foolish for complaining that morning. Clingy dwarves, indeed! He’d love a clingy dwarf for the rest of his life.
Thorin rose, gathering all the discarded finery in his hands. He unceremoniously dumped them back into Bilbo’s jewelry box. A far cry from the care he’d usually give them, but Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to mind, for Thorin rushed back to the bed and began taking off his necklaces.
He took off one at a time at the beginning, then pulled the rest over Bilbo’s head all at once, growling with impatience. He settled back down at Bilbo’s giggle, pressing their foreheads together briefly before continuing on with his work.
The necklaces were dumped in the jewelry box as well, but Thorin lifted Bilbo’s crown from his head with utmost gentleness, setting it on the end table, next to the book Bilbo had placed there earlier.
“Your engagement gift,” he murmured, voice deep. “For the hobbit Consort of Erebor.”
“For your husband,” Bilbo said.
“For my One.” And with that, Thorin knelt back down to curl his fingers around the hem of the mithril shirt, the last piece of jewelry left and the first accepted, originally given with possessiveness that soon brightened into love.
Bilbo raised his arms over his head, allowing Thorin to pull off the armor easily. Like the crown, this too was placed carefully back into the chest. With his body now devoid of jewelry, Bilbo went to turn around, but not before Thorin managed to steal a quick kiss.
The oil Bilbo had rubbed into his hair had softened his curls, allowing Thorin to pull through a brush with ease, stopping only to unbraid his marriage, engagement, and Company braids, placing each bead into their special box where they would never get replaced. The braids left some parts of Bilbo’s hair curlier than others as he had put them in while wet. Thorin seemed to delight in running his hands through them.
Turning back around, Bilbo stood and took the brush from Thorin, setting it back down on the end table. “Your turn,” he said.
Thorin dutifully stood still, bowing his head as Bilbo pulled his tunic over his head, rumpling his hair, and lifting his feet for Bilbo to pull off his boots.
As he worked, Bilbo found himself humming, a mindless tune that seemed to write itself as it went along. Thorin soon joined in, and though neither knew the song they were singing, their voices seemed to meld in perfect harmony. It wove around them as Bilbo pulled off Thorin’s undershirt, running his hands along Thorin’s shoulders, and sat Thorin down on the bed to pull off his pants.
Thorin dressed quickly in a loose pair of sleep pants, but looked at Bilbo instead of the pants as he pulled them on. It caused him to stumble back to the bed and into Bilbo’s arms.
“It looks like I’ve fallen for you,” he said.
“Lucid enough to joke?” Bilbo teased, touching the tip of Thorin’s nose. “I must not be doing a very good job.”
Just as Thorin had done for him, Bilbo took his time unraveling Thorin’s braids: the two framing his face, as well as the marriage one, capped with a bead to match Bilbo’s own. These too went into the bead box, leaving Bilbo’s hands free to run a comb through Thorin’s silky hair and beard.
When the comb ran through effortlessly, Bilbo switched to using his fingers, combing through Thorin’s locks until the other was slumped against him, practically purring from the attention.
“Alright then?” Bilbo asked. He had to wriggle slightly to get comfortable against the pillows, and shift Thorin so that his neck wouldn’t complain when they woke. “Ready for the book?”
“Read to me,” Thorin said, and his voice was the farthest thing from a King giving a command.
Bilbo reached over and grabbed the book from the nightstand, along with the glasses he always kept there. A ribbon marked the page they had left off of, and slipping the glasses on, Bilbo opened the book and began to read:
“It was by the light of morn that Utmit awoke, though he was frightened for a second upon opening his eyes, for it was as if the world had changed overnight. Mahal himself must have replicated every leaf and rock in the stream from precious stone, and then replaced them one by one, so that the land was a wave of shimmering facets.
‘Ah,’ said Utmit. ‘So this is what love does.’
He rose to his feet and packed his possessions, then hastily followed the path Thedim had taken with neither memory nor map to guide his way, for Thedim was his One, and Utmit could forever follow him as long as they continued to love each other…”
-
And so they continued to love each other. The time between Thorin’s gold sickness grew even longer, until almost an entire year would pass, and when the sickness did strike again, it would only take Thorin for three days. But for those three days, he and Bilbo would retreat to their chambers and spend their days immersed in their love.
When Frodo came of age, Bilbo and Thorin returned to the Shire once more, not just to visit this time, but to escort him to Erebor. Thorin’s sickness would sometimes extend to Frodo too, and the three of them would read together on the little sofa in the sitting room.
The Ring that Bilbo had kept with him for all these years came into play long after he and Thorin had retired back to Bag End. Its presence made Thorin sick with goldlust for much longer, for he was never resistant to its promise of power, and so Bilbo kept it buried amongst its possessions and was only a little reluctant to see it go.
They escorted Frodo and his friends with Gimli to Rivendell, where they met a man named Aragorn (“Son of Arathorn,” Thorin whispered in Bilbo’s ear) and young Legolas, who seemed much more chipper than when they first met him in Mirkwood. Elrond welcomed them with open arms, and they dined together one last time before they left. Frodo pressed his forehead to each of theirs in goodbye.
As they walked outside and drank in the fresh air and the sounds of birds chirping, Thorin turned to Bilbo.
“What do you feel like doing now, amrâlimê ?” he asked.
“Well,” Bilbo smiled, feeling his age now that the Ring was gone. “I think it’s time we had one last adventure.”
fin.