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I’m in love with a monster, thinks Bilbo as he watches Thorin pace the treasure room, his eyes alight with the shine of gold. Thorin is wrapped in thick furs and his head is burdened with a crown, but Bilbo imagines a head with horns, the furs transforming into scales, and Bilbo cannot look at Thorin.
He sits on the second to the bottom stair to the treasure chamber. A cold plate is beside him, filled with bread and meat and potatoes and carrots. It was warm when Bilbo brought it down two hours ago. Thorin told him he would sup shortly and then went back to filling his sight with gems and trinkets, jewels and jewelry.
Bilbo cannot look at Thorin and see the dwarf he once knew, the dwarf he once loved. No, the dwarf he still loves, for all that he is buried beneath this new monster. Once Bilbo looked at Thorin with wide wondering eyes, not knowing how such a person could be real. A wandering ruler with nothing but the love of his people driving him forward, the yearning for his home motivating him more than thoughts of wealth and power.
For all that their love is unspoken it is there. It has been there for a while now, though Bilbo cannot tell exactly when it started, when he first heard tones of love in the words “Master Burglar” or felt the weight of a gaze that lingered too long to be platonic. He cannot remember when he stopped seeing Thorin as their leader or a fierce outsider but instead as a friend and then as something more. Something Bilbo cannot define, especially not now, when in one moment Thorin will scorn him like an errant insect and then the next try to pin him down with his eyes alone.
It all blurs together, just as the treasure room does now, and wearily Bilbo realizes he’s tearing up involuntarily. He dashes a hand to his eyes and sniffs quietly. Not quietly enough.
Thorin, all thick furs and heavy crown and fingers dripping with jewelry, fills Bilbo’s vision suddenly and he is on Bilbo like a hawk on a trout, grasping Bilbo’s chin none too gently with a ring-clad hand.
“Are you crying, Master Baggins?”
Bilbo can do little but shake his head slightly, his mouth clamped shut by Thorin’s hand. There’s a wildness in Thorin’s eye, a mania that Bilbo cannot begin to define. Being down here lifts Thorin’s mood but Bilbo does not (cannot) believe it is good for him. There are dark circles and deep shadows beneath Thorin’s eyes, the usually warm blue sharp and cutting.
Thorin looks at him for a long while, and Bilbo cannot wipe away the errant tear that spills over his cheek and runs down to Thorin’s hand. Thorin gasps quietly when it touches his skin and finally releases his grip upon Bilbo.
“You are not injured, are you? Or ill or misused?”
“No, Thorin.”
“Speak up, your voice is quieter than a mouse’s!” Thorin’s own voice echoes horribly in the halls and Bilbo is reminded of another voice, one that shook the very foundations of Erebor.
“No, Thorin, I am well.”
Thorin looks at Bilbo for another long moment, and then he smiles.
It is not a true smile, not the one that seems to draw all light to it, the one that Bilbo craves even now, but rather the cold and humorless smile the mania seems to have bestowed upon Thorin of late.
“I understand now. You are overcome by the wealth and riches of Erebor, as I once was. This place is so very wondrous and grand, it is no surprise that it should bring tears to your eyes.”
Bilbo says nothing. Let Thorin believe what he will. He cannot tell him that his tears are for the dwarf he met in Bag End, the dwarf he can find little trace of in the current Thorin.
“Thorin. Will you not rest now? I have yet to see you slumber since we arrived in Erebor some days ago.”
Thorin scowls, looking away from Bilbo’s face to turn to the great hoard of Thror. Bilbo brushes away the nagging feeling that Thorin wants to sleep upon the treasure, find a bank of gold to make his bed, a crown his only pillow. He wets his dry lips, tastes the lingering salt of his tears, forces his facial muscles into a rusty but polite smile.
“Surely even kings sleep, hm? The gold has lain here for centuries, and it will continue to do so even when you are not here. Please, Thorin, I worry.”
The dark head turns back to face Bilbo, scowl still firmly in place. Bilbo wets his lips once more, a nervous habit, smile faltering beneath that icy stare.
Slowly, Thorin’s face softens.
“Perhaps you’re right, Bilbo. I am a bit tired now that I think of it. A king needs to be strong, some rest will do much for me.”
Bilbo’s smile turns into a true one, and he stands, thinking Thorin will follow him.
“Could you bring a bedroll down for me? I feel my sleep would be easier in these halls.”
Bilbo freezes in place, feeling as if he’s been pierced by Thorin’s words.
“Please, dear friend. Once you return we will sit and I will tell you stories of growing up here in Erebor and you may tell me of your home as well.” The grin Thorin offers him is dazzling. They had done that once before, swapping stories by a dying fire long before they reached the mountain, a way to chase off the gloom of Mirkwood, huddled close together for warmth.
Bilbo cannot stop the shiver that comes over him.
But Thorin does need to sleep and his face is the closest to the Thorin that Bilbo remembers in this moment.
“Of course I can do that,” Bilbo croaks, before clearing his throat. “Of course. I’ll be back shortly.”
Thorin’s grin is beautiful, and Bilbo hurriedly turns and dashes up the steps so Thorin will not see the fresh tears that fill his eyes.
I’m in love with a monster, and I do not know how to turn him back, he thinks, and the cold stone steps bite into his feet as he leaves the treasure room behind.