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The stream looks magical, Bilbo thinks. The warm dusk sunlight glints haphazardly through the water and back off the stones that line the bed. A vibrant pink algae grows on the rocks in the shallows and casts a pink tinge to the light. It is almost enough to make the hobbit forget about the serene comfort of being in his own company with his feet up near the hearth and an easy read in his lap. He stands on the banks of the stream, the cool and damp earth under his feet calm his mind. He feels like a cloud - well, what he imagines a cloud would feel like. The kind of clouds that bunch together on the horizon at sunset, they are often compared to spun sugar by faunts back home. Huge, warm, billowy, and soft. Spun sugar is of course a party treat, due to the complexity involved in making it and the high demand for sugar means it’s a highly coveted indulgence. The memory of threads of sugar dissolving in his mouth have his stomach rumbling. He’s startled out of his sugar and cloud filled reverie by a cool splash to his face. Bilbo immediately glares at Fíli; the dwarf stands knee deep in the water with his trousers rolled up above the knee. Fíli turns away from him, scratching the back of his neck absently and pretending to examine the far side of the stream.
“What are you doing in the water, Master Fíli? Are you not tasked with collecting firewood?… Actually never mind that, where is your mischievous brother?”
Fíli presses his lips together instead of answering, in an attempt to conceal a telling smile, Bilbo realises. He suddenly feels hyperaware of his surroundings. Glancing around the banks of the stream and the sparse scrubland that surround it. The trees and shrubs stand menacingly still and quiet. The trickle of the stream is is threatening in a way that makes Bilbo's jaw clench. He cannot see anything or anyone suspicious, but his ears twitch once: listening carefully for a moment. He turns back to face Fíli, a reprimand already on his tongue.
“I am right here, Burglar,” Kíli whispers into his ear.
Bilbo jumps, whips around to face the dwarf and swears he will throttle him. Respectable hobbits like Bilbo’s father were never goaded to violence so easily, but Bilbo knows that with every passing day his manners and respectable reputation are being worn away by the steady crudeness of the Company. Besides, he has been told (rather disapprovingly) and on more than one occasion, that he takes after his mother in temperament and so, he shoves the dwarf away from him with all his strength. Kíli has the decency to at least look a little affronted by the hobbit’s reaction and stumbles backwards a few paces. He quickly regains his usual expression though and begins laughing.
“Settle down there, Master Boggins! We only meant to jest!” Fíli calls from the stream.
Bilbo huffs and remembers himself. He clasps his hands behind him and gives Kíli a contrite look, an apology taking the place of the reprimand. He opens his mouth to deliver it but is cut off.
“Not to worry, Hobbit, but do tell us - what were you day-dreaming of?” Bilbo smiles softly at Kíli’s question; hostility all forgotten in favor of a lighter, more favorable topic of conversation. The two dwarves have a mighty curiosity, something that Bilbo had often been rapped on the knuckles for as a faunt. They also had already discovered how remarkably easy it is to distract the hobbit by asking about his beloved Shire.
Bilbo tells them of the spun sugar clouds and other memories from his younger years without hesitation, a rare experience for the brothers (and Ori, as well). All three harbor great wonders about the former lives of the elder dwarves, but do not dare to bring pain to them by asking them to remember those lifetimes simply to answer a young dwarf's questions. The hobbit rocks forward and backward on the balls of his feet as he continues with enthusiasm. Telling the brothers about climbing atop Farmer Maggot’s scarecrow to see the sun sinking below the horizon once when he was but 10 years old. If Bilbo were not reliving the exhilaration he felt at being several feet taller atop the scarecrow’s wobbly shoulders, he would have seen the knowing smile shared between the brothers.
“Ah, we thought perhaps you were thinking about our Uncle.” Fíli cannot hold in an evil grin as he watches the hobbit freeze in the middle of describing the terror that Farmer Maggot and his dogs could have discovered the hobbit trespassing.
“For we do see how look at him, especially during evening times when the comfort of another can chase away the chill and distract from any homesick feelings that a particular hobbit could be suffering fro-“ Bilbo’s face flushes, first in embarrassment and then anger as his un-hobbitish (and rather Took) rage returns. Perhaps the months of non-stop interaction with Dwarves have affected him more than he thought.
Unable to stop himself, Bilbo rushes forward into the stream. He kicks a sharp spray of water at Fíli who is struck in the face mid-sentence. He splutters in shock but before Bilbo can feel any satisfaction the wind is knocked out of his lungs. Kíli tackles him into the stream. When the hobbit resurfaces, he shoves the dwarf again but struggles against the weight of the water. He stands thigh deep in the stream, his trousers soaking, his feet mottled through the clear water. He takes a step forward, intentions set on giving Fíli’s moustache braids a good hard pull, but he slips and only just regains his footing. Bilbo’s heart skips a beat in his chest at how close he had come to falling backwards into the water.
“Steady on there, little one.” Kíli laughs.
Bilbo lunges at him with all his might. Wrapping an arm around Kíli’s neck and trying to force him head-first into the stream. Kíli shrieks like a bird.
Dwalin stands as soon as he hears the scream. The twine and leather strips he was using to repair the handle of his axe, fall from his lap to the ground. Thorin, who had been similarly tending to his sword beside him stands as well, the pair recognizing a scream of deep pain. There had been shrieks and yells from the stream but Thorin had just assumed that his nephews were once again, sparring instead of doing as they were told. He rushes to the stream, Dwalin and Oin on his heels. He cannot stop himself from imagining exactly what Dís would have to say if one of her sons have maimed the other under Thorin’s care. They meet Fíli, Kíli and Bilbo on the bank, all three sopping wet. Bilbo’s face is screwed up in agony, he is held carefully in Fíli’s arms, his fists clenching at his sides as he cries about the pain in his knee. Both of Thorin’s nephews look panicked.
“I swear Uncle, he slipped on the rocks- “
“We were just playing; we didn’t mean to- “
The hurried explanations from both are cut short with a stern look from Thorin, Oin quickly springs into action. Beckoning Fíli to lay Bilbo down on the soft leaf litter away from the stream and prop him up against a tree. The hobbit gasps in pain as the angle of his leg shifts. Oin gently rolls up the leg of his trousers and examines his leg carefully, tender touches moving it from side to side. The usual protrusion of his knee looks wrong, it sticks out oddly and the upper calf sits too far back.
“Just dislocated, I think, lad,” He states and begins rummaging in the pockets of his tunic.
Bilbo looks faint. Thorin quickly moves to his side and crouches, he grasps the burglar’s small hands and squeezes them once as if to say, ‘Relay your pain to me’.
“Breath, Master Burglar. In your nose and out your mouth,” Thorin urges him. The hobbit grips his hands tightly as he heaves a shuddering breath and huffs it back out. The toes of his uninjured leg curl under slightly as he tries to manage the pain thrumming in his body.
Thorin turns to his nephews, who are looking quite pale themselves. He observes Fíli’s rolled up trousers and Kíli’s wild, wet hair. “Why were you in the stream in the first place?” He demands.
“We were just playing a game, Uncle. We swear!”
“Bilbo ran in after us! He was trying to spar.”
Bilbo groans. “That is not true, you two were… making fun of me…” He lets out another groan as Oin returns to feeling around the knee. He squeezes Thorin’s hands tighter.
“You know what lad? I think we could pop it right back and you’ll be right as rain!” The healer remarks cheerfully. Thorin can tell that Bilbo does not share half of the same enthusiasm for ‘popping’ the joint anywhere.
“Master Oin, are you sure that Hobbits are… the same as ourselves?” Dwalin asks awkwardly. He is unsure of how to properly phrase the question, but he has noticed how very small and delicate hobbits are, excepting their feet as Bilbo had informed the Company.
Oin frowns. “You’ll have to speak up. I cannae hear -“ He motions to his ear- “No trumpet on me.”
“He’s in an awful lot of pain, Master Oin! Do Hobbits’ bodies work the same as ourselves?” Dwalin repeats, louder this time.
“Well, he’s got ten fingers and toes by the looks of it, and I’d have to guess that he’s got all the right… bits. But you’re right, he is in a lot of pain which is why I’ve got this -“ He pulls a small bunch of dried herbs from his pocket, and gives Dwalin a withering look- “Really think I’d just set his knee without anything for the pain?”
Dwalin looks slightly apologetic. Bilbo is breathing shallowly again, about a stone’s throw from hyperventilating. He glances up through the red haze of pain and sees the rest of the Company gathered around, drawn by the scream and Dwalin’s loud speaking.
Oin strips two stems and collects the small leaves in his palm. “Give me your hand, lad.” Bilbo releases his white-knuckle grip of Thorin’s hands and offers a shaking, upturned hand to the healer.
Oin tips the herb into his hands and push it back. “Chew as much of it as you can and then swallow it all.” Bilbo looks hesitantly at the pile of dried leaves. “Quickly now, I don’t want ya knee to swell while we dally around. We’ve yet to even set it.”
Bilbo grimaces and turns to look questioningly at Thorin, who merely nods once in encouragement. The hobbit tilts his head back and feels the herb fall softly onto his tongue. The taste spreads immediately, and he squints his eyes. He frantically chews the bitter leaves, the saliva filling his mouth only making the taste stronger. He attempts a swallow, but his throat will not cooperate. Eyes tearing up, he chews some more and finally forces it down.
Bilbo takes a gasping breath, hating the stale and still overpoweringly bitter remnants of the herbs. He notices that Dwalin has crouched at his feet and has steadied his leg by carefully taking hold of his ankle. Bilbo grits his teeth; his leg is extremely sensitive to any touch and pain shoots up from his knee at the slight movement of his ankle.
Bilbo’s brow furrows, he suddenly feels quite odd. His mind drifts unnaturally from thought to thought and the world feels a bit... hazy around him. Almost like the weight of his body has vanished. But also, quite like he’s been wrapped in a tight hug. His body suddenly warm, and a comforting weight on his chest. He lets out a tiny, confused squeak as Thorin places a bracing hand on his thigh. Inhaling sharply through his teeth at the pain, but also at the suggestiveness of Thorin’s very warm hand.
He looks at the dwarf, frowning and feeling compelled to laugh and smile. Thorin takes ahold of Bilbo’s hands once more. Then Bilbo does smile, and giggle quietly, his pupils almost fully dilated, the tiniest sliver of iris remaining at the circumference of his eyes. Thorin sheepishly returns the smile before looking to Oin. Oin nods and places one hand on his calf and the other just above his knee.
“Ready, little one?” Thorin asks. Bilbo feels warmth all over, and somewhere in the back of his mind hopes he isn’t blushing madly.
“Hmm? Ready for what?”
Oin straightens his leg, pulling down and then pushing up. It all happens so fast and then Bilbo feels a sickening click. He hisses in a breath and grips Thorin’s hand like a lifeline. He senses Dwalin and Oin let go of his leg, but he does not notice. “Ugh,” he says, in a long, drawn-out way. The pain rushes over him like a wave. He can hear Oin talking to him, but the words are not making sense in his brain and he blankly stares at the dwarf. Then he looks at Thorin once again, his eyes feel so heavy and yet when he moves them, they swing around wildly. The wrongness in his knee is gone, which is a relief, leaving a seeping and heated pain in its wake. His head lolls momentarily on his shoulder while he gazes into Thorin’s eyes.
“’S done now?” He slurs, eyes still feeling like dead weights. Thorin taps his fingers twice very gently against the inside of Bilbo’s thigh. It is warm and comforting, and makes Bilbo want to squirm.
“The painful part is over, Burglar. Oin is just fetching some wrappings to make a splint of sorts for your knee.”
“Uh huh.” Bilbo blinks slowly.
“Are you injured elsewhere?” Thorin asks, concern lacing his voice, and he eyes the hobbit attentively. Bilbo lazily shakes his head, under different circumstances Thorin would have laughed, their prized and resourceful burglar who had talked trolls out of eating his Company was acting like he’d smoked a whole pipe full of funny weed.
Fíli and Kíli approach, sensing that with their Uncle so distracted by Bilbo they’ll be saved from any tongue lashings they may or may not deserve. They crouch on Bilbo’s unattended side, feeling just a tad uncomfortable at the utterly loving looks Bilbo is giving Thorin.
“All better now, Master Boggins?” Kíli asks.
“Yeah, I’ve popped my knee out before and I didn’t carry on half as much as –“ Fíli begins to say.
“Uh, get lost,” Bilbo mumbles over his shoulder at them and practically nuzzles his face into Thorin’s hand. The brothers are left speechless. Despite Bilbo having attempted to thrash them in the stream some half an hour before, the typically polite hobbit has never shown such careless manners.
Thorin is quite speechless too. Bilbo is practically cuddling into him like a sleepy child. He wonders what exactly that herb was.
Oin returns to them with all the necessary supplies, he swats Fíli and Kíli away and encourages the rest of the company to return to where they had been intending to set up camp for the evening. Oin quickly starts fashioning a supportive splint for Bilbo’s knee. The hobbit winces but mostly remains leaning against Thorin, the dwarf occasionally squeezing the small hands he holds in reassurance.
The last of the afternoon light is quickly retreating and Bilbo begins to shiver every now and then, still being wet from the stream, although his dirty blond curls have started to dry out and lift towards the heavens.
“Master Oin,” Thorin begins, speaking loudly to the healer as he works on Bilbo’s leg. “What was that herb you gave the burglar?”
“Ah, it’s a rare herb, for sure, every healer worth their salt will know of it though. Just a little something that can help with pain, makes ye loopy enough to not feel the brunt of it,” Oin explains, although Thorin thinks that nothing has really been revealed in the explanation. He guesses that had something to do with Kíli and Fíli still lingering around the edge of the stream, actually looking for firewood in the dismal evening light. “Certainly not for recreational use.” Oin gives a pointed look to Thorin’s nephews who have suddenly spotted an abundance of dry wood away from the stream.
“Feel like I smoked somethin’ queer,” Bilbo mumbles, half his mind on the conversation and the other half who-knows-where.
With the knee firmly set, Oin directs Thorin to carry the hobbit back to the camp. “Best to warm him up now and get some food into him, Mahal help us if they haven’t started a fire yet.” The dwarf trudges ahead of Thorin and Bilbo. Thorin treads carefully, trying not to jostle the hobbit in his arms. Bilbo has his hands curled into Thorin’s surcoat and is mumbling incoherently under his breath. Thorin bends his head forward to try and catch Bilbo’s eye, his mane of hair falling forward too.
“Bilbo, are you well?”
The hobbit sighs and grasps one of Thorin’s braids. He runs his hand along the plaited smoothness in a soft caress. “Your hair is very magnificent, Thorin.” The dwarf blushes furiously at the compliment and is glad for the darkness obscuring it.
“Thank y-“
“All of you is magnificent, Thorin… your hair, your face, your body… So tall, and mighty, and strong… Can lift me without effort and protect me from bad things…” Bilbo trails off and begins giggling again. Thorin still careful in his stride, quickens his pace – suddenly uncomfortable about the proximity between the hobbit and himself. It is clear that Bilbo does not know what he was saying and does not have control of his mind right now.
“Oh my… Thorin what do you think the soil is like in this forest? Usually, I can tell from the plants that grow, but I cannot remember what I noticed before,” The small being rambles on. “Although, Farmer Maggot can tell what the soils like just from sniffing the air. Which is extremely strange if you ask me. The Shire consider me weird, as if Farmer Maggot does not traipse around sniffing the wind like one of his hounds!” Bilbo says exasperatedly. Thorin is not sure how he is supposed to answer. All of the hobbits that Bilbo has spoken of seem strange to him.
Fíli and Kíli meet the pair as they enter a mercifully lit camp. Thorin places Bilbo down in front of the fire to warm him up. He removes, with difficulty, his wet red waistcoat and navy vest and drapes them on the ground near the fire to dry. Bilbo looks up at him wide eyed and shivering in his thin and transparent undershirt. Thorin shrugs off his surcoat and wraps the hobbit in it before moving away to see how Bombur is going with supper.
“How’s the Hobbit now?” Dwalin inquires, he too has approached the cook to find out when exactly the evening meal would be ready, curiously the elder Ri brothers are glaring after him with particular viciousness in their eyes.
Thorin turns to check up on Bilbo. Fíli, Kíli and Ori have sidled up to him to lift his spirits, and in the brothers’ case to dry their own wet clothing. The hobbit has his arms propped behind him and is gazing up at the canopy, he appears to be barely listening to the three young dwarves telling him of great dwarrow miners and their spectacular finds.
“That herb seems to have been particularly potent,” Thorin answers. Dwalin chuckles softly.
“Did I not ask Oin about Hobbits?”
“I suppose as long as it does not impact him too badly,” Thorin adds, still gazing at the hobbit. Bilbo’s curls bounce as his head jerks forward to his chest as sleeps nearly claims him. Something about seeing his own surcoat wrapped around the halfling makes Thorin’s stomach twist.
“At least, it’s taken his mind off the pain.” Dwalin admits.
Thorin jumps at a soft touch to his shoulder, Fíli leans forward into the conversation.
“Speaking about Bilbo? He’s off his head on whatever Oin gave him, I tell ya.” Thorin swears he didn’t even notice that the blond dwarf had left his brother, Bilbo, and Ori at the fire.
Soon Bombur calls that dinner is ready. Thorin brings a bowl of stew to Bilbo who accepts it with a leisurely smile that flips Thorin’s stomach once again.
“Hey! Where’s mine?” Kíli asks despondently, still sitting by Bilbo while Ori has left to get his own dinner.
Thorin ignores his nephew and returns to receive his own bowl of stew. The Company has gathered around the fire to eat, Oin and Gloin sit by Bilbo while the rest of the dwarves hear from Fíli, in hushed tones, of how the hobbit became wounded.
Bilbo is half-mindedly answering Oin’s questions on his pain as Thorin sits with them. Kíli once again looks bewildered at Thorin’s lack of a second bowl of stew for him, he rises in a huff to get some. Bilbo tucks into his food like any good hobbit does, which is reassuring to Oin and Gloin, the latter’s paternal instincts having become slightly misplaced upon the young hobbit and dwarves of the Company. Bilbo mewls randomly about the loose earth he is sitting on, causing the brothers to chuckle. The hobbit’s eyes still wide with wonder, as if experiencing the world for the first time. Thorin nods to Oin and Gloin in thanks and the pair join the rest of the Company who have just finished slightly berating Fíli for his embellished tale of a hobbit inflicting terrible violence upon his brother and he. Thorin finds himself rolling his eyes. His gaze is caught by Bilbo though.
He shifts under the out-of-place intensity in Bilbo’s eyes. They are completely unguarded, and if Thorin knew more of hobbit’s ways he would have understood.
“Your eyes are beautiful,” Bilbo remarks after a time.
Thorin coughs and chokes on a sudden inhalation of breath. He flushes red, and mumbles an excuse of fetching more firewood.
Thorin returns while the Company is bedding down for the night. He rejoins Bilbo, who still sits by the fire. The hobbit's leg is raised on a folded blanket, Thorin guesses that it is Kíli’s, clearly his nephews have attempted some kind of apology. They both sit near the fire, Bilbo leans against Thorin’s right side with his head slowly drooping closer and closer to rest against the dwarf too.
Thorin knows the moment Bilbo finally succumbs to sleep when his head of tawny curls make contact with the top of Thorin’s shoulder. The hobbit’s breath evens out. Thorin almost chuckles, he had been telling the hobbit in soft tones, so as not to disturb the rest of the Company, of his early childhood. The true joy of being young that can only be replicated when deep in a cup or in the first stages of sickening love. He had told Bilbo of the dark and warm caverns that he, Frerin and Dís had played in and of their favorite dwarfling games. Bilbo would not remember the stories, but even so he seemed comforted by them.
Thorin remains by the fire, with Bilbo a light weight against him, for hours. The only disturbance being the tramping and stumbling of Dwalin and Ori as they return from taking watch. The mixture of moonlight and firelight show Ori’s fervent blush and Dwalin’s pink flush as well. The pair giggle rather loudly when they spot Thorin and Bilbo by the fire. Thorin doesn’t think he’s ever glared this hard at anyone. The couple approach regardless.
“How is the little one, Thorin?” Ori asks.
“Asleep,” Thorin whispers, “Although, I suspect he won’t be much longer if you two keep carrying on.”
Dwalin grins and snakes a hand around Ori’s waist to tug him closer. Ori squeaks. Bilbo shuffles in his sleep, almost drawn from sleep by the sudden commotion, he turns into Thorin more and Thorin tucks him under his arm. Then he sends a pointed glare filled with all manner of threats at Ori and Dwalin.
Dwalin merely rolls his eyes. “Come Ori,” He says, and the pair turn away from the fire, “Let’s get you to bed before your brothers wake up and rip me a new one,” Dwalin adds.
Bilbo sighs heavily in his sleep. Thorin sighs too. He should rest. He should gently wake the hobbit and send him off to his bedroll, but he finds himself unable to. So, Thorin stays where he is until early morning. He thinks on the ways he can use the information he has learnt about Dwalin and Ori this night. Dwalin, clearly so enraptured in the shorter dwarf, didn’t realise just what he was revealing to Thorin. Information which undoubtedly explains the glares the Ri brothers were giving Dwalin that afternoon. Although, Thorin would never directly put Dwalin in harm’s way (or Nori and Dori’s way, for that matter), he thinks that Fíli and Kíli will have no such qualms. Besides, Thorin knows that Ori will worm his way out of trouble too. It would certainly redirect the raised eyebrows Thorin gets whenever speaking of or looking at Bilbo.
As dawn approaches Thorin can feel the stiffness in his back and legs. He softly nudges the hobbit, who groans at the disruption of his sleep.
“Was just having a lovely dream,” Bilbo mutters.
“Return to your dreams, little one. Breakfast will not be for a while yet,” Thorin assures him and moves away so he can lay Bilbo on the ground and arrange him comfortably in the surcoat. Bilbo quickly falls asleep again. Then Thorin stands up gingerly and stretches. He picks up his sword and slips it into the scabbard at his waist before setting off on a walk around the camp.