Chapter Text
“So I will need your help,” Bilbo continued, looking straight forward and rubbing thumb over fingers as they neared the Hobbits’ settlement. “I will be fine with most things; it's only a few that I am still liable to make mistakes on. And it would only need be a small touch, nothing, nothing invasive- If they are to believe that we are a pair, it wouldn't be out of the ordinary after all.”
It was only a fortnight previous that Bilbo had even given a hint of his predicament. He explained now as they approached the Shire that he’d sent word to some of his relatives about finding his soulmate while off on his journey, back before he’d found reason to return. Their relations had been… bumpy on their quest, Thorin’s singleminded focus on their quest, the need to reclaim his homeland, his unjust disappointment-
Thorin shook his head; it didn’t bear thinking now. Thorin had insisted on coming with Bilbo during his trip, officially saying that there would be need for diplomatic meetings in the name of Erebor (even if his sister had scoffed at his abilities in any kind of politics), but truthfully because he desired the time it would afford him with Bilbo.
“Why is it that you would need to touch me in the first place?” he asked.
Bilbo still wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Thorin ground his teeth. For all the time that they had spent in Erebor together, after the battle had been won and the kingdom had started to rebuild, there were still times that Bilbo reacted as though he expected Thorin to berate him for any expression of fondness. It was as if things had returned to the way they were at the beginning of their quest.
Thorin supposed he couldn’t blame Bilbo for any of that, not with his behavior at the gate. Bilbo's betrayal still stung, but it could never have justly deserved the punishment Thorin had wrought.
His memory of that time brought him no small amount of shame and regret. Not the least because he had chased away any chance of returning his One’s affections with feelings that he had only just begun to nurture.
“They will expect me to know my colors now,” Bilbo admitted after a patch of silence.
“Ah,” he responded, and Thorin felt a familiar dose of shame come over him. Bilbo had had to wait until he met Thorin to know even a hint of color in the world around him, and because of his stubborn prejudices, Bilbo was still unable to see them for more than a few moments.
“It would only be a quick touch if they are trying to test me, not that I think they would do that for long. It’s just that it’s somewhat of a tradition when there’s a new… well a new couple,” he trailed off.
“Do what you must,” Thorin settled on.
Bilbo gave a quick bob of his head, biting his lips between his teeth and avoiding Thorin’s gaze. Could he have phrased that in a gentler way? He had given Bilbo free rein, telling him to do whatever he needed, and yet he still looked nervous.
“Would you like to practice?” Thorin suggested.
Bilbo did look at him then, surprised hope laying plain on his features. Thorin reached out a had toward Bilbo, “Name for me the color of those flowers, just there.”
Bilbo laid careful fingers over his palm, steadying into a firmer grip as his breath picked up and he looked at the foliage around them.
They spent the remainder of their journey rehearsing not only how long and firm a touch would be needed to see different colors, but the names of each of the colors as well.
It came as a surprise the first time that Bilbo had to ask what the name of a color was.
“Those there, they’re called sweet pea flowers. Olive is a type of… of purple, wouldn’t that be right? Or would those be a pink?” Bilbo asked.
“No, olive is…” Thorin considered their surroundings. He grabbed the hand that Bilbo had been pointing with and moved it so he was instead pointing at a fallen tree. “It is green, like that moss. The flowers,” he continued, allowing his fingers to linger perhaps just a second too long, “do you know the color of tanzanite?" At Bilbo's puzzled expression, he searched for a shade a hobbit would be more familiar with. "Lavender, then.”
“Oh, of course,” Bilbo said, giving his head a quick shake. Thorin could still see though, that a flush had risen on his cheeks. Whether from embarrassment or something else, Thorin couldn’t say, even if he did hope. “Like the flowers of course. Lavender flowers, I mean. They are their own type of flowers, where the color comes from." He brought his head up to look at Thorin with a chagrinned expression. "I imagine it’s easier to keep them straight when you know your colors.”
Yes, Thorin considered. It likely would be.
. o O o .
They stayed with Bilbo’s cousins, the inheritors of Bilbo’s family home, Bag End. Thorin couldn’t relate to the strangeness of being a guest in ones own home, but he still picked up on the faint discomfort Bilbo’s familiarity with the hobbit hole leant to their interactions. Drogo and Primula were fine hosts, though, and Bilbo was clearly well-versed in handling such situations smoothly. From what experience he would have gained that knowledge, Thorin didn’t care to guess.
Their son Frodo had taken a particular interest in Thorin, and was now asking him the colors of various objects in the room as Bilbo and Drogo cooked in preparation for supper.
“The pot!”
“Which one, mamamûn?”
“That one!” Frodo cried, bouncing as he pointed at a shelf of…
“The vases?” he asked.
“Crockery, dearheart,” Primula corrected from where she sat knitting.
“The crock’ry, that one!”
“That is yellow,” Thorin encouraged with a small grin. “Did I get it right?”
“I don’t know!” the fauntling cackled. Frodo smacked his hands together and rocked back against Thorin’s grip from his seat on his lap. He couldn’t help but laugh along, if only to mirror the delight the child was experiencing. It had been a long while since he had been around a child so young.
Thorin had learned that it was a great game to young hobbits to guess at the colors of items around them. They had no way of seeing the colors themselves, to his knowledge, so it seemed the answers were nothing more than blind guesses. He would think it odd that they found such enjoyment in it if he didn’t remember the nonsensical games his nephews had played at such an age (not to mention the asinine ones they played even now).
Thorin shook his head against the memory. “Do you know anything else that is yellow?”
Frodo curled tiny fingers in front of his mouth as he shook his head, dark curls bouncing against the sides of his face.
“What is yellow and in the sky?” his mother asked.
“A flower,” he answered, leaning back into Thorin’s arm.
But Primula shook her head as she suppressed a smile and set down her knitting needles. “In the sky, dearheart. Tell Uncle Thorin what is yellow and is in the sky,” she asked, raising her arms to form a circle, fingertips meeting just above her head.
Thorin steadied the fauntling, grabbing him by the waist with both hands as he mimicked his mother.
“The sun!” he crowed.
“Yes, the sun, how smart you are!” she praised, leaning in to tickle his belly. “How about you ask your Uncle Bilbo one, now? Tell him something from the kitchen.”
Bilbo caught his eye from the kitchen, the barest hint of extra white around his eyes. He was too far now to let Bilbo sneak a touch; what would he be able to guess without seeing? Thorin let his eyes roam the kitchen. Before he could decide on something though, Frodo called out his question.
“What color is… the rug!”
Thorin watched Bilbo eye the rug and then look back at him, expression holding a thinly veiled panic.
“Is it… um,” he swallowed, shaking his head as he looked down at the little carpet beneath their feet. “Well I can’t, I find I can’t quite remember it’s name,” he finished in a nervous lilt, hand finding its way to the fringe at his neck.
“Frodo, I think your uncle could use some help,” Drogo prompted. “Can you tell him the big color of the rug?”
Thorin lifted his brow and made a show of adjusting one of the rings on his right hand before shifting his attention to Frodo. It was still a stretch if Bilbo didn't remember the name of the stone in his ring, but-
“It’s green,” Frodo giggled.
“Oh,” Bilbo said, “well thank you very much Frodo, I believe I’ll be able to name it now. I do believe the shade I am looking for is… jade.”
Bilbo looked over to Thorin for confirmation, who bobbed his head to the side. It was a fair guess.
“Did he get it? Did he, Uncle Thorin? What color is jade?”
“Jade is green. I suppose I can accept his answer,” Thorin allowed. “Although I would have said emerald.”
Bilbo cracked a smile before turning back to the pot he was seasoning. “Well pardon me for not knowing one green gem from another. You’re lucky I even know that much,” Bilbo groused, but Thorin could tell that he was relieved. “These dwarves don’t put the same importance on color that hobbits do,” he told his cousins. “It’s only a concern if there is a gemstone to match. No care at all for learning the colors of flowers, I'm afraid."
“So now you feed me to wargs?” Thorin asked with a laugh. Traitor! It had been on the tip of his tongue, but he clamped his mouth shut at the last moment. Things were going well, this was no time to let a clumsy tongue ruin things between them. "We care about metals as well," he said instead, "don't let him tell you any different. A silver beard," he informed them, looking over to Bilbo, "or golden curls-"
"Alright fine, you dwarves can describe a color just as well as a hobbit, you can stop now!"
"He is just smitten Bilbo, you mustn't get cross," Drogo grinned.
Primula leaned over to pat Thorin on the arm, and Thorin broke eye contact with her to look at Bilbo, blushing as bright as... as the zinnia flowers outside.
Thorin looked away. Perhaps Bilbo was right. For all that Thorin could dress him in the finest metals and gems in Erebor's treasury, he really was better complemented by by the flowers of his home.