Chapter Text
Greetings (and late lunch) were in order as soon as Thorin popped into the bed and breakfast that day. He had managed to convince Dwalin that, without a few days rest, he may have to see a doctor about his reoccurring migraine headaches and stressful nights' sleep. As soon as the news came forward that the company would be threatened with the healthcare system finding out about their illegal enterprises, the younger Fundin brother handed his consigliere a wad of cash and pushed him towards the airport, making sure one of their errand boys packed Mr. Durin's bags for him. As soon as he could say goodbye and promise a handful of phone calls from the country, he was off on a red-eye flight that fateful night.
He had originally planned to go to Ered Luin, where his sister and himself had grown up after their parents and brother were massacred in a frightening house fire. Thorin didn't remember much of the history of the incident, as he was no older than eight or nine, but he did remember the face of his brother, Frerin, filled with horror as flames reflected in his eyes. The manor they had called home was subject to arson and, as Thorin was the oldest, he had rushed to take his newborn sister into his arms before the staircase fell to the ashes. He called for Frerin to wake their mother and father up; the toddler hadn't been quick enough, and only two survivors of the Durin family walked out safely that night.
Thorin still had a few patches of broken pig-skin on his legs where the flames had touched to remind him of the past, but years of therapy and rehabilitation had cured him of his nightmares. The migraines were not entirely his job's fault, as memories of the fire still tore at his brain, but he was reassured that the future ahead was bright and that he would always have in memory a family that loved him beyond measure.
As he retraced his steps in the little airport in which a plane had taken him home to Ered Luin, he was frightened to find that he hadn't booked a hotel or at least a car to drive. Even worse, the football finals were in season, and all of the lodgings were booked weeks ahead for tourists and fans who planned to cheer on the teams. Naturally, he routed back to London but stopped himself as Frerin's stare filled his memory.
Did he really want to return home to London when he was given his first days off in a decade?
Instead of making a beeline for the terminal, Thorin took a breath and ordered a coffee. He grabbed the nearest pamphlet stack and fished through them, looking for somewhere that would catch his eye. Rivendell looked promising enough -- a lush tourist attraction with waterfalls, white castles, and large feasts of food. Durin gave a call to the number at the bottom of the paper but was met with the same news as Ered Luin; football season was at its peak, and there wouldn't be any place open to a wandering businessman as himself. Besides, the mayor there was famous for being hated by the Fundin Brothers company, having had dealings in the past related to bloodshed and fraud.
Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea, after all, mused Thorin as he went to call the next number. He found that the little town of Bree, a line of cottages and green hills in the center of the Shire country, had a bed and breakfast that looked quaint and inviting. It was called Bagshot Row, an odd name for such a happy-looking hotel, and advertised comfortable rooms, tasty meals, and a view unlike any other in the rolling hills. Perhaps it was a tad bit boring and unappealing to a Londoner such as himself, but Thorin was stuck in the airport seats and it couldn't hurt to get a nice sleep in a quiet town. Besides, how bothersome could the host be if everything around looked so gorgeous and serene?
Now met with reality, disappointment was flushing in Thorin's stomach as he set his suitcase down on the creaking wood floors. The walls were wallpapered with hideous floral patterns and woodland birds. The carpets were a plush cream, so shaggy that some of the pieces were coming loose. It smelled of warm tea and old people inside. Three cats were looming under an armchair in the living room, staring at him with menace as if he was an itch that needed to be scratched. Everything was dreadful to the businessman, from the view to the old bedspread which was stained with printed, needlework red roses.
Except for the host.
The host, Mister Bilbo Baggins, was an absolute one-in-a-million when it came to Thorin's taste in men. He hadn't found attraction in the male race for a long time, not since he was young and going to clubs advertised with rainbow flags and private bathroom stalls. He was short and stout, with golden curls that trailed down past his big ears. He wore a vintage mustard-colored sweater and tight blue jeans, massive feet tucked into old black Converse shoes. His eyes were a pretty green that matched the atmosphere of Bree perfectly, and his cheeks blushed just enough that Thorin knew, at first sight, that Bilbo couldn't have been straight. Right?
Not getting his hopes up wasn't going to be easy, but Thorin was a gentleman and shot back into reality once he packed his belongings into a chest of drawers and sauntered down the stairs of the bed and breakfast.
Bilbo was reading on the armchair, patting an old orange cat.
"It seems you've gotten yourself settled, I hope?" He pondered gently as he realized he was relaxing a bit too hard, dog-earing the page and shuffling off into the kitchen. "Can I make you something to drink, Mister, ah- Durin?"
"Coffee would be fine," He chimed back, already feeling the effects of the long, midnight plane ride. Too burdened to sit in the ugly furniture, Thorin leaned against the staircase and took in the image of the innkeeper from the back. Bilbo caught his eye immediately and blushed. Bingo already. "It's Thorin."
"Pardon?"
"Thorin. Mister Durin was my father," He chuckled, the image of Bilbo's face running ripe red in embarrassment filling his eyes with lust. Maybe he had needed a vacation, after all, just to stretch the old wings. "Is the entire cottage yours?"
"Everything but the barn!" He smiled proudly, puffing up as he brought Thorin a cup of hot black coffee and an old cow creamer cup. "The barn I sold to the lads next door for their ponies. The cottage I took over from my parents, who started the whole bed and breakfast thing."
The coffee was delicious, and the businessman fell into the couch finally to relax, listening to Bilbo rattle on about the foundation, the history of the town of Bree, the neighborhood gossip, and his lack of visitors at this time of year. He reassured Thorin that his presence was more than welcome -- they hadn't had a proper Londoner here in ages! This would be easy to get used to. Very easy to get used to, if the host was as accommodating in bed as he was with strangers such as himself.