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When Gandalf Grey, the town’s unashamedly eclectic landlord, had told him that the house’s previous tenant hadn’t quite moved on, this isn’t what Thorin had in mind.
Seated at the kitchen table, he drummed his fingers on the pale, knotted wood and narrowed his eyes at the teacup which was drying with its rim to the silver draining board, upside down in the bubbles like an overturned boat. Before he had slumped into the chair, the cup had been in the sink. Thorin rubbed his hands over tired eyes and plucked at his greying beard: it wasn’t lost on him that the entity currently residing in Acorn Cottage seemed to be a helpful one, intent on keeping the place clean and tidy.
Acorn Cottage was not actually a cottage at all, but each terraced house on Blue Mountain Street had a square ceramic tile above its front door by which it was christened after local flora and fauna. The houses were Victorian red bricks, narrow three-storey buildings once inhabited by textile mill workers and their families, back when the town had been a bustling hub of industry. The factories and their vast looms were all silent now, and yet this was not true of Acorn Cottage.
Shuffling footsteps in the night, the gentle clink of bone china in the kitchen, doors letting out a whine as they shut without a breeze, the rumble of the coal chute in the cellar. At first, Thorin had assumed his mind was playing tricks on him as he acclimatised to his new home. It was a big change, moving from the metropolis he had worked in all his adult life to a smaller town. But he knew Oin was being coaxed into a reshuffle which would land the older members of their team in desk jobs. As thrilling as compiling shift rotas, fighting with spreadsheets, and leading training exercises with terrifying mannequins sounded, Thorin was in no way done with being on the front lines, and so he had transferred to a local hospital with a smaller A&E department. He got to remain behind the wheel of an ambulance for a few more years and this also meant he was living much closer to his sister and his nephews.
After three weeks, when he had walked into the living room to discover his father’s antique globe spinning rather violently on its wooden axis, he had done what any sane person would have done: he drove himself straight to the hospital and demanded every possible test be done to determine the cause of his insanity. Knowing his family’s history of Alzheimer’s, Dr. Bowman did go to great lengths to reassure Thorin that he was perfectly fine, healthy in both mind and body, and that maybe what he needed was some company.
Thorin scoffed at such a suggestion, he was perfectly happy without company. He went to his sister’s once a week for Sunday lunch, and besides, he wasn’t alone in the house. He had Spock, his arthritic, fourteen-year-old, black and white Scottish fold cat. The fact that Spock wouldn’t enter any of the upstairs bedrooms and insisted on hissing at the worn leather armchair by the fire was neither here nor there.
Once he had spent a month in the house and concluded that the creaking floorboards and wandering crockery and curious smell of chamomile in the evenings weren’t hallucinations, Thorin had made another sensible decision: he rang his landlord and gave him a piece of his perfectly healthy mind.
He felt Gandalf had been humouring him when he sent a host of contractors – plumbers, electricians, carpenters – to inspect every nook and cranny of the Cottage. Indeed, the landlord had been infuriatingly calm about the whole thing.
“You know the plumber? Well, his face was white when he came out of the cellar.”
“Yes, I imagine the state of the Victorian pipework would do that.”
“Listen, Mr. Grey, when I signed the contract –”
“Gandalf, my dear boy, call me Gandalf.”
“Listen, Gandalf, when I signed the contract for this place, you didn’t tell me about… about these problems.”
“I did mention that Mrs. Tunnelly, the previous tenant, was having a little trouble moving on.”
“I thought you meant the furniture she’d left behind, not that she was deceased… And this is ridiculous, are you actually trying to tell me that this house is haunted?”
“Surely all houses contain the ghosts of their previous owners.”
“Yes, but why do I get the feeling we’re not exactly speaking metaphorically here, are we, Gandalf?”
The conversation had proceeded to go round in circles until Gandalf, finally tiring of riddles, had informed Thorin that he knew someone who might be able to help.
Three squeaky knocks sounded at the front door and Thorin let out a pre-emptive groan. Help had arrived. He rose from the chair and Spock, who was curled up in his quilted bed in the corner, looked up at him with large amber eyes. He gave a curious mew.
“It’s alright,” Thorin reassured him. “You’re not expected to be sociable.”
Many of his belongings were still in boxes, but he had made sure Spock had everything he needed to make him comfortable. Thorin doubted Spock would venture from his bed, for the two of them certainly had misanthropy in common.
Another rap sounded and so Thorin made his way through the living room and down the narrow hallway to the front door. He half-expected to find Gandalf standing on his doorstep with a priest, or perhaps an aging woman with an excess of beads and incense. He did not, therefore, expect the rather attractive, short, bespectacled man who greeted him with a warm smile and a small wave.
“Good afternoon, Thorin!” Gandalf said cheerily. The landlord was looking noticeably dapper in a three-piece grey suit and long coat, and for a moment Thorin wondered if letting property was just one of many hustles.
“Hello,” the other man ventured, when no answer from Thorin was forthcoming. He was perhaps in his late thirties with a neat mop of strawberry blonde curls and pale green eyes which were studying Thorin from behind tortoise shell glasses. He wore tan chinos and a burgundy cable knit jumper, which made Thorin, in scruffy jeans and a faded Battlestar Galactica t-shirt, his dark hair in a loose ponytail, feel significantly underdressed.
“Thorin, this is Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf gestured beside him. “He owns an antique bookshop on Bagshot Row.”
Thorin remained motionless in the doorway, simply staring. Perhaps Gandalf had actually brought him an academic, some kind of historian who would be able to explain the strange occurrences quite logically. Or perhaps the man was hiding an ancient occult text behind his back and they were about to try summoning something.
“Thorin, may we come in?”
Feeling like he was suddenly returning to his own body, Thorin grunted and shuffled back into the hallway to let the two men inside. Something rather uncomfortable and tickly happened in his chest as Bilbo Baggins slipped past him. It didn’t help that Bilbo turned to glance over his shoulder with a smile before disappearing into the living room.
“Sorry I, er, haven’t had chance to tidy the place up,” Thorin mumbled, unsure why now, after forty-six years of life, he was starting to care about the clutter he had created with the morning’s unpacking.
“You should see the back room at the shop,” Bilbo offered kindly. “There are reasons I’m the only one allowed to do a stock check.”
Thorin made a noise in reply, somewhere between a chuckle and cough, and immediately turned away, mentally chiding himself to get it together. It was at that moment that Spock came ambling out of the kitchen, moving faster than he had done in years, and promptly collapsed against Bilbo’s leg, resting his head on a brown brogue. Thorin narrowed his eyes at Spock and Spock simply returned the glare, before nonchalantly licking his paw.
“Well, aren’t you just gorgeous?” Bilbo cooed. “What’s their name?”
Thorin stumbled forward and scooped his traitorous cat up off the floor, unsure of what he might be up to. “Spock,” he replied, noticing that Spock’s yellow gaze was fixed on Bilbo. “It’s, er, the markings above his eyes… They look like Vulcan eyebrows.”
Bilbo peered up at Thorin with a wry grin. “You’re a bit of a nerd, aren’t you?”
Thorin actually spluttered. “Says the person who owns an antique bookshop!”
“I’ll have you know I work out daily… Some of those books are damned heavy.”
There was a moment of quiet, in which Bilbo and Thorin merely smiled at each other, and then Spock bumped his head against Thorin’s chin, returning him to himself once again.
“So…” Thorin began carefully. “Gandalf says he thinks you can help me?”
“Yes,” Bilbo responded, being equally careful. “I suppose people like me don’t exactly advertise.”
“Are you a psychic? Like a medium or something?”
“I guess I would prefer the term ‘clairvoyant’, although labels have never really sat right with me.”
Thorin felt the weight behind Bilbo’s words, but still his stomach was sinking. He couldn’t help but feel that this charismatic stranger (whom he couldn’t take his eyes off) and Gandalf were taking him for a ride.
“You don’t believe?” Bilbo asked quietly.
“No, I don’t suppose I do.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
They shared another quiet moment, somehow sadder than the first, and then a clang sounded from the kitchen. Thorin wasn’t sure how it was possible that he could have forgotten about Gandalf, but the landlord seemed to want to reassert his presence. They moved through to the kitchen, Thorin depositing Spock back into his bed, and found one of the iron pans swinging on its hook above the stove and Gandalf rubbing his forehead.
“Find everything you need?” Thorin asked, one eyebrow raised, but Gandalf refused to look sheepish.
“Oh, look at the grass!”
Bilbo hurried around the kitchen table and went to the French windows which opened out onto the back garden. Thorin moved to his side, knowing Bilbo was commenting on the garden’s state of neglect. There had once been a gravel path snaking to the gate, but it had been invaded by an army of nettles and weeds. The grass on either side was long enough to fold in on itself, ending at the fences with a foam of white clover, like waves breaking on a beach. Sometimes, at twilight, when the air was completely still, Thorin thought he saw the long grass parting, making way for an unseen wanderer.
“I’ve, er, not been blessed with a green thumb, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps this is why she rang me,” Bilbo murmured, as if he hadn’t heard Thorin. “It’s been so long since I last saw to the garden.”
“Wait… what?” Thorin slowly turned to him. “Who rang you?”
“Mrs Tunnelly,” Bilbo explained. “I used to garden for her, on occasion.”
“You… You’ve been to this house before?” Thorin’s stomach was sinking further. If Bilbo knew his way around, it would be easier to fool him, to set something up. He couldn’t bear to think that the man in front of him was some kind of charlatan, but it seemed to be becoming more of a possibility.
“Yes,” Bilbo said softly. “I lived here, for a short time, after my parents died… Mrs Tunelly has always been very good to me. I know it shouldn’t be a shock, what with her being ninety-four, but still her death did sneak up on me… I only wish I’d made time to see her before…”
Thorin began fidgeting with his beard. The look of sadness in Bilbo’s eyes was enough to make his heart ache… Surely this wasn’t all part of the show? He didn’t want to believe that Bilbo could be this manipulative, but maybe he had other reasons for hoping that.
“Well,” Thorin said, coughing to clear his throat, not daring to look Bilbo in the eye. “I’m afraid I just can’t, er, afford this at the moment… Expensive month, you know.”
Bilbo spun around and he looked so horrified that it made Thorin want to take a step back. “Afford? My goodness, I’m not doing this for money.” His gaze moved to Gandalf and became furious. “Don’t you dare tell me you’ve been trying to charge the poor man!”
Thorin quite appreciated Bilbo’s quiet rage and the way it made Gandalf raise his hands in placation. “Of course not, my dear Bilbo, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Bilbo’s black look seemed to imply this particular conversation wasn’t over, but when he turned back to Thorin the anger all but melted away. “You’re absolutely right to be sceptical, Thorin… I’m not trying to change your mind, but I will help you, if I can.”
Bilbo placed his hand on Thorin’s arm, making the tickle return, but then he quickly withdrew it as if burned, an audible breath getting caught in his throat. Thorin didn’t have time to question this reaction before Bilbo was speaking again.
“I should like to stay the night, if that’s possible?”
“What?”
“Mrs Tunnelly was a nocturnal soul, so I’m guessing that most activity occurs after dark?”
“Erm, yes… I suppose… But…”
This was quite unexpected and Thorin was sure he was about to start having palpitations.
“That sounds like a splendid idea!” Gandalf put in, unhelpfully.
“It’s just that, um, I haven’t organised the spare room yet… There isn’t any bedding.”
Gandalf smiled. “Well, perhaps –”
“No.” Thorin didn’t want to know what his landlord was about to suggest, the answer was no.
“Not to worry, some blankets on the sofa will do the trick… but that is only if you’re okay with this, Thorin?”
Bilbo was watching him expectantly, looking almost hopeful, and Thorin sighed. Perhaps he didn’t believe in ghosts or that Bilbo had special powers, but he believed in medicine and he believed in people… and if Dr. Bowman thought he needed some company, he could think of no better company than Bilbo Baggins.
*
“What about a Ouija board?”
“Certainly not, nasty, disturbing uncomfortable things!”
Thorin couldn’t help but chuckle at the way Bilbo wrinkled his nose as he spoke. They were sitting in the living room, an empty pizza box between them, both cradling cups of tea – not chamomile though, definitely not, but an organic breakfast blend from Dis’ shop.
“So… how does it work?” Thorin asked cautiously, lowering his cup into his lap.
They had spent most of the evening discussing anything but the supernatural and tucking into pizza (Bilbo knew a trio of brothers who owned a restaurant a few streets over), and the house had remained silent, as if it was merely listening. However, as was inevitable when one is sitting opposite a purported clairvoyant, the topic had finally arisen.
“I suppose I’m not entirely sure,” Bilbo answered, sipping his tea. “It’s not something I ever do on purpose… it’s more instinctual.”
“Like a sixth sense, you mean?” Thorin couldn’t help himself.
Bilbo’s smile indicated that he was forgiven. “It comes in flashes, like seeing other people’s memories, but only for a fraction of a second… I have dreams that don’t belong to me… Sometimes it’s emotive, a sharing of feelings, like Deanna Troi and Betazoid telepathy.”
That was it, Thorin was one more Star Trek reference away from marrying him.
“I thought you’d like that,” Bilbo commented, and he didn’t need a sixth sense to notice the slight blush creeping into Thorin’s cheeks.
“And… when you lost your parents?” Thorin was aware he was entering potentially dangerous territory and he hoped Bilbo knew he was being sincere in asking.
“They didn’t linger.”
Thorin accepted that this was the end of it. The glimmer of pain in Bilbo’s eyes made him want to reach out, and this reminded him of something else.
“When you touched my arm, earlier today… Did you… Were there…?”
Bilbo’s expression regained its warmth. He placed his cup on the low table between them and shifted closer to Thorin. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his wrist. “You’ve experienced a lot of loss in your life, Thorin… I was caught off guard.”
Thorin hung his head: he couldn’t argue with that assessment, but he was glad Bilbo wasn’t recoiling now, the warmth of his hand was soothing. “You saw them? My family?” He couldn’t quite believe he was asking, taking for granted that no one had told Bilbo about his past, but the pain in his chest demanded it.
“I felt your grief,” Bilbo whispered. “I’m so sorry, Thorin, for everything you’ve been through… But they’re not here anymore.”
Thorin was surprised when his eyes suddenly felt hot and prickly, he pulled his arm from beneath Bilbo’s hand to quickly scrub at them. He knew they weren’t here anymore – surely that was the point? The reason for his grief? Bilbo seemed to be suggesting that they had moved on, to somewhere better, to somewhere they could be at peace… but for one selfish moment, Thorin wished they had lingered, so that maybe he could speak to his brother, his parents, one last time.
Thorin had always viewed death in a certain way, with a certain detachment. This was necessary in his line of work. Thorin had held people as they bled out and died right there in his arms. He had watched the glass fall over their eyes as they passed. And he had never thought of them moving on or lingering, just that they were gone and he hadn’t been able to save them. But now Bilbo Baggins had arrived, quite unexpectedly, into his life and was making him reconsider his views of mortality. But Bilbo seemed like the kind of person who could make even the most stubborn, pig-headed souls into philosophers.
“I do apologise, Thorin,” Bilbo said softly. “I never meant to upset you.”
Thorin straightened up in his armchair and cleared his throat. “Mrs Tunnelly is lingering though, isn’t she? That’s why all this has been happening?”
“I believe so,” Bilbo replied, then let out a snort. “I remember her telling me she would set me up with a nice young man, that she wouldn’t rest until she did…”
And that was when a thud resounded from the room above them. Spock, who had been sleeping under the coffee table and taking the occasionally swipe at the pizza box, poked his head out and swivelled his lamp-like eyes up to the ceiling.
“You heard that too, eh?” Thorin murmured, reaching down to give his ears a scratch.
The thud was followed by the distinctive scrape of furniture and the patter of footsteps. Up until this point, Thorin had simply been irritated by the noises, cross with himself for not circling a different ad in the Erebor Herald, cross with Gandalf for being so blasé about the whole thing, but now… now he could feel his skin pimpling beneath his ponytail and a slight shiver take hold of him. He never thought he would find himself on the verge of believing that there really was something supernatural going on.
There was a creak and a whine as a bedroom door was thrown open and then the footsteps shuffled away, fading out in the direction of the staircase.
Bilbo’s eyes had been trained on the ceiling, but now he looked to Thorin. “I think she wants us to go upstairs.”
Thorin scratched at his bearded chin, making no move to get up. “Right.”
“Does the activity ever move downstairs after it’s started?” Bilbo asked, rising from the sofa and taking a step towards the doorway.
“No… I, er, sometimes…” Thorin couldn’t quite believe he was admitting it, but something about Bilbo drew the information from him. “Sometimes I sleep down here… when the noises won’t stop.”
Bilbo sighed. “Mrs Tunnelly really is making quite a nuisance of herself… I suggest we go and find out what we can do for her.”
“Okay… I’ll just go get the torches.”
“Torches, Thorin?”
“For… for when we go upstairs.”
Bilbo was grinning at him now. “But the lights are working, aren’t they?”
“Yes… but I thought we’d… you know, have to keep them off?”
“This isn’t a horror film, Thorin,” Bilbo chuckled. “We can keep the lights on, it won’t affect the activity.”
“Right…” Thorin said, his cheeks feeling hot. “Of course, the lights will be on.”
“Come on then.”
Bilbo moved to the living room doorway and gestured for Thorin to follow him. The pair of them moved in single file down the hallway and came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.
“Er, after you,” Thorin mumbled, under the guise of politeness, but Bilbo’s knowing smile indicated that he had failed in covering the fear that creeping up from his stomach.
They climbed the stairs. Each creak of the wooden steps sounded like a cacophony in the silence. Mrs Tunnelly appeared to have stopped her fussing and Thorin had a horrible feeling that she was waiting for them at the top of the staircase.
“I suggest we go room to room,” Bilbo said, sounding business-like and not at all terrified as he flicked on the upstairs hallway light. “If we –”
The bathroom door suddenly slammed shut and Thorin grabbed Bilbo’s hand with a yelp, his heart in his throat.
“You have our attention, Daisy,” Bilbo said, completely unfazed as he slowly extricated his hand from Thorin’s.
“S-sorry… I’m sorry,” Thorin whispered, cursing himself for his cowardice. He had never expected to be scared, or to embarrass himself like this, but he felt as if cold water had been thrown over him and he was only just waking up to the world as it has always existed.
“It’s alright,” Bilbo said gently, squeezing Thorin’s shoulder. “Just remember that with most spirits, their bark is worse than their bite. Mrs Tunnelly doesn’t mean us any harm… Some of this is frustration at limited means of communication, and some of it is just showing off.”
Thorin nodded, uncertain as to whether this actually made him feel any better.
“Let’s start with the spare room,” Bilbo said, heading for the bedroom above the kitchen, turning on the light as he passed through the doorway.
Definitely not wanting to be left behind in the hallway, Thorin swiftly followed him. He hadn’t been able to give much time to this room. The old furniture was still covered with dust sheets and it wasn’t lost on him that the white linen hanging over the floor lamp made it look like a child’s ghostly Halloween costume, all that was missing were some crudely cut eye holes.
“This was my room… for a time,” Bilbo said quietly. He was standing at the end of the bed, fingers curling over the scratched wooden footboard.
Thorin came to his side, momentarily distracted from the sickly scrunching in his stomach. “You said Mrs Tunnelly looked after you… when your parents passed away?”
“Yes, well, none of my relatives were interested,” Bilbo said, his voice rather hollow. “They were far more interested in property… I… I never went back, to our house.”
“I’m sorry, Bilbo.” Neither of them were strangers to suffering, and so Thorin simply stood at his side, sharing in the echo of grief.
“Well, there doesn’t appear to be anything going on in here,” Bilbo said, matter-of-fact again as he straightened up. “Shall we try next door?”
Thorin went for the light switch this time and they entered what was now his bedroom. He caught Bilbo admiring his dark blue astronomy-themed bedsheets and he was glad he’d actually bothered to make his bed that morning. Frequent night shifts and having lived alone for the past decade didn’t make him as house-trained as he knew his mother would like.
Bilbo ran a finger along the front of the mahogany dressing table, apparently lost in thought, and Thorin decided it was good manners to stop staring at him. He instead elected to start tidying the heap of things on his bedside table.
“Ah, The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” Bilbo said, appearing beside him. “I actually have a first edition at the shop, lots of other Wilde too, if you’re interested?”
Thorin placed the slim volume in his bedside drawer, trying to stop himself beaming. This was the first time Bilbo had mentioned seeing each other after tonight and a fuzzy feeling sprouted in the bottom of his chest.
And then they were suddenly plunged into darkness.
Thorin let out a yell and grabbed hold of Bilbo. He only realised he wasn’t sure which part of Bilbo he had grabbed when the younger man gave a cough. Thorin promptly released him and groped for the bedside lamp, his heart hammering against his ribs.
In the first flash of the lamp’s dull yellow light, Thorin saw a face in the dressing table mirror. An elderly woman, wrapped in a floral dressing gown, was standing beside him and Bilbo, an envelope clutched in her pink, swollen hands. And then she was gone, he and Bilbo were alone in the room.
“Did… did you…?” Thorin gasped, struggling to speak over the manic double-thumping within his chest, unsure there was any colour left in his face.
“Thorin, look,” Bilbo breathed, guiding his eyes below the dressing table mirror to a drawer which was now slightly open. It had definitely been shut before the light went out.
“A ghost,” Thorin managed to get out, voice still sounding strangled. “Did I… just see a ghost?”
Bilbo seemed to understand his shock and carefully placed a hand on the small of his back, urging Thorin to join him in approaching the dressing table. Grasping the brass handle, he carefully pulled the drawer further out and there, lying in the gloom, was a white envelope.
Thorin had never thought to check all the various drawers and cabinets and cupboards when he moved in, he only opened something when it was needed… and the dressing table’s surface had been more than sufficient for his limited personal affects.
It was with calm reverence and care that Bilbo lifted the envelope from the drawer, like an archaeologist excavating a tomb. He flipped it over and made a sound in the back of his throat. ‘For Bilbo’ was written in slightly shaky script across the front.
Thorin was sure neither of them had managed a full breath before Bilbo slowly withdrew the envelope’s contents: a wad of old photographs.
“Oh,” Bilbo murmured, staggering slightly.
Thorin gently held his shoulders to steady him and watched as Bilbo fanned out the photographs. They were all of a young family in various rural locations and it was with tightening of his heart that Thorin realised he must be looking at Bilbo’s parents… and the small, smiling child sitting between them was undoubtedly Bilbo himself.
“I… I never thought I’d see these again,” Bilbo said, looking up at Thorin with watery eyes. “The Sackville-Bagginses never responded to my attempts at contacting them… All I wanted was the photos, they could have the house and the land, I just wanted something to help me remember my parents.”
Thorin kept his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. He couldn’t imagine what mourning would have been like if he hadn’t even had photo albums and videos of his family.
“I gave up in the end, it was too much for me to bear, but Mrs Tunnelly never did,” Bilbo continued, now holding the photos to his chest. “She promised she would crack Lobelia… now it looks like she finally did.”
“And she stuck around to make sure you got these,” Thorin said softly, the fear slowly being replaced with relief.
“I only wish I’d picked up the phone,” Bilbo replied, putting his chin to the photographs and closing his eyes, a tear slipping along his golden eyelashes. “I know she was trying to tell me… Things were just so hectic with the shop, but that isn’t an excuse.”
“I’m sure she understands. What matters is she found a way to let you know.”
Thorin couldn’t quite believe what he was saying, what they had just witnessed, and he knew a few hours ago he would be scoffing at the idea of messages from beyond the grave… but now he didn’t feel he like the same man from a few hours ago.
Bilbo slowly leant his head against Thorin’s shoulder and turned into him. “Thank you,” he said quietly, keeping the photos pressed to his chest.
Thorin wrapped his other arm around him, the contact feeling right, feeling comfortable, as he shared in both Bilbo’s joy and his sadness. In that moment, he felt as if he had known Bilbo for a lifetime, not less than a day.
A loud meow startled Thorin and he jumped away as Spock waddled past him, tail held high.
“Dammit, Spock, I almost stepped on you!” Thorin growled, glaring down at his cat, who paid absolutely no attention and instead jumped onto the bed and began kneading the duvet. “Nothing would get you in this room and now look at you, making yourself at home.”
“Shall we leave him to it?” Bilbo laughed, giving Spock’s ears a scratch as he tucked his paws under his fuzzy loaf of a body, clearly making himself comfortable.
Thorin nodded and they both headed back downstairs, with Thorin turning on every light and lamp as he passed, just in case.
*
Thorin awoke mid-snore and slammed his hands down on the arms of the chair he was slumped in. Sunlight was streaming through the gap in the living room curtains, giving the room a bronzed, pinkish glow. It took Thorin a moment to remember where he was as he untangled his legs from the heavy blanket draped over his lap.
Bilbo was asleep on the sofa, the coffee table scattered with photos between them, and his body curled around a cushion. His blanket had been pulled down to his waist and Thorin saw that Spock was snoozing at Bilbo’s feet. The cat had clearly dragged the blanket down in order to make his nest, as he had a tendency to do.
“Making friends, are we?” Thorin whispered, approaching the sofa carefully. It appeared Spock had now chosen a second human being he found tolerable, and Thorin wasn’t sure he could blame him in his choice.
Bilbo’s face was half-obscured by his strawberry curls, but still he looked tired. Thorin ignored Spock’s half-hearted mew of protest and slowly drew the blanket back up over Bilbo’s shoulders.
The house was quiet now, the only sounds being the faint chirp of birds and soft swish of the long grass coming from the back garden. Thorin hadn’t heard any thuds or footsteps since they returned downstairs and it appeared no noises had woken him during the night. He reached up to stretch his back, groaning as something clicked – he would be glad to sleep in his own bed again.
“Good morning.”
Bilbo was peering up at him with bleary green eyes. He yawned and brushed his curls from his face.
“Um, good morning,” Thorin replied, slightly relieved that Bilbo appeared quite unbothered by having awoken to find Thorin looming over him. “Did you sleep alright?”
“Yes, thank you.” Bilbo swung his legs over the side of the sofa and gave Spock a stroke in greeting. “Although I think I will be needing some coffee. I know an excellent place in town... if you fancy some breakfast?”
Thorin, feeling emboldened by the night's events and unable to ignore the fluttering in his stomach, answered: “It's a date.”
And Bilbo returned a brilliant smile. “Yes, it is.”