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Bilbo did not wake up to the sound of someone calling his name.
For a moment he lay still, listening for any sounds he might have missed, but all he could hear were the steady breaths from the very warm body next to him. Absolutely no one was calling for him, or asking him to get up, or anything of that sort.
It was, he decided, a matter very much worthy of investigation.
With some regret, Bilbo pushed aside the arm draped over him, worming his way out from under the covers. Of course, as he might have guessed, he hadn't even made it to the edge of the bed before he heard someone stirring behind him.
"Mmm... Bilbo?" He knew even without looking that Thorin was currently groping under the covers, trying to find the warm little hobbit that had suddenly disappeared from his arms. "What is..."
"It's Frodo, I think." Which he really shouldn't have said, he knew how Thorin reacted to anything of that sort, but then not offering an explanation would not have gone much better.
"Frodo?" Thorin sat up instantly, blinking as he looked around the still mostly dark room. "What happened? Is he hurt? What should we do?"
"Oh, calm down, you silly thing." Bilbo rolled his eyes as he finally made it out of the fairly massive bed, shivering at the feeling of cold stone under his feet. It always took him a moment to get used to the feeling in the morning. "It's just that I woke up and he wasn't here."
"And?" Thorin frowned. "Is this wrong somehow?"
"Thorin, think for a moment. When is the last time we woke up without a little fauntling climbing on top of us?" Which was rather endearing, yes, and had seemed like a personal triumph the first couple of times Frodo had done it. After all, it meant he felt comfortable and safe enough around them to bother them like that, and that was a good thing. As much as Bilbo might have sometimes liked a bit of a lie-in, he wouldn't have traded all the late mornings in the world for the smile on Frodo's face when he announced it was time to get up and give him first breakfast.
"I... can't recall, I think. Not unless he has been sleeping over somewhere, at least." Thorin frowned, getting out of bed as well as Bilbo quickly traded his nightshirt for more respectable clothes. "You don't think anything is wrong, do you?"
"Oh, I don't think so. He did seem a bit grumpy last night, perhaps he was just more tired than usual. But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check in on him, make sure he doesn't sleep through first breakfast. He would rather hate to do that, I think."
Thorin snorted. "I don't think it's physically possible for a hobbit to sleep through a mealtime."
Bilbo laughed. "Oh, I don't know. I've sometimes slept right through elevensies after a particularly joyous evening. Just because we happen to have more meals than dwarves doesn't mean we eat all the time, you know."
"Seems like it sometimes." Nevertheless, Thorin was quick to offer consolation in the form of a kiss as he passed Bilbo by on the way to the dresser. "I like it, though. Keeps my favorite hobbit nice and soft, just the way I like him."
"You have a favorite hobbit, hmm? I do hope you introduce us some day." Bilbo gave Thorin a teasing grin, shrugging on his waistcoat and buttoning it up while Thorin started working on his hair. It wasn't a court day, so the simple tunic and trousers would probably be all Thorin wore around the mountain, but he would rather have gone out of their rooms naked than without combing and braiding his hair.
Dwarves and their priorities. Then, Bilbo supposed they had to direct their attention somewhere, given that they were so very insistent on cramming their feet into big, clumsy boots rather than making sure they were clean and nicely brushed.
Bilbo finished before Thorin, even taking into account the time it took to brush his feet, and lingered by the door, idly toying with the couple of braids he had in his own hair. They were simple things, quite unlike the complicated designs some of the dwarves wore, but they were quite enough for him. The beads were the most important part, anyway, carved with Thorin's personal seal and the mark of the line of Durin. It didn't matter how short his hair was, Bilbo had been told, it just wouldn't do for the Prince Consort to go around without bearing any sign of his husband.
The sitting room was empty of any life, hobbitish or otherwise, though someone had been by just recently to add to the fire. Bilbo still wasn't quite used to having people do such things for him, but Thorin had managed to convince it wasn't that different from having a gardener. There was going to be a guard by the door to the royal apartment anyway; they could just as well make themselves useful and see to the fire during the night. Of course, Bilbo might have had a thing or two to say about the guard posted there, but he had learned to pick his battles by now. As far as dwarvish quirks went, wishing to make sure his family could sleep safely was one of the more endearing ones, even though Bilbo rather doubted any actual danger could have found them in the middle of a mountain full of fiercely loyal dwarves armed to the teeth. And, well, it did mean he didn't have to worry about Frodo sneaking out on any solitary adventures, as fauntlings were sometimes inclined to do.
It was clear there were no adventures going on at the moment, though. As Bilbo opened the door to Frodo's room, Thorin hovering behind his shoulder, he could clearly see the little form curled up in the bed, exactly where Bilbo had tucked him in the night before. Walking to the side of the bed, Bilbo reached over to shake Frodo by the shoulder.
"Frodo? Frodo, my lad, it's time to wake up."
The response he got was more a whine than anything, a truly pitiful sound if he'd ever heard one. After a moment Frodo rolled over to his back, looking at Bilbo with glazed eyes. "Papa?" he murmured. "I don' feel good."
Bilbo lifted his hand to Frodo's forehead, brushing away a couple of sweaty curls while he ignored the wave of warmth that still filled his heart at hearing that word from Frodo. He had made it clear from the start that he and Thorin were not trying to take Drogo and Primula's places, and Frodo should just call them both Uncle if that made him feel more comfortable. Frodo had decided, with the logic of a child and what Bilbo rather suspected to be strong encouragement from his new cousins, that since his father had been Daddy, it was perfectly all right for him to call Bilbo and Thorin Papa and Adad and nobody would be losing their spot. Bilbo hadn't exactly had the heart to argue against that, certainly not when he had seen the look in Thorin's eyes when Frodo first called him that. That single expression of joy and wonder would have been quite worth the entire journey over to the Shire and back to save the poor boy from getting passed around from relative or another or, worse, being stuck with Lobelia in a bid for Bag End. He'd passed the place on to Drogo when he had married Thorin and chosen to stay in Erebor, and had been quite happy to sign it all off to Lobelia just to make sure poor Frodo wouldn't have to grow up around her. The poor lad had lost enough as it was; Bilbo wasn't about to let him lose all joy as well.
"Well?" And here was Thorin, who had at first seemed quite dubious about his ability to be any sort of parental figure, hovering by Bilbo's shoulder anxious for any update. "What's wrong? He certainly doesn't look all right."
"He's burning up," Bilbo murmured. "I think he's caught a cold, it certainly explains his bad mood yesterday. Could you ask the kitchens to send some chicken soup with our breakfast, if possible? And for Óin to stop by when he can. There's no hurry, I just want to make sure there's nothing worse going around the mountain."
Bilbo glanced over his shoulder at Thorin as he finished speaking, and knew in that instant that he had made a very grave mistake. He recognized the gleam in Thorin's eyes. It wasn't just that of a worried parent anymore; this was the grim determination of a king riding into battle he wasn't entirely sure he was going to win, but he was damn well going to crush any enemy who stood in his way as long as there was breath left in him.
Bilbo hoped against hope that Óin wouldn't be too terribly offended to be dragged to Frodo's bedside approximately as fast as Dwalin could carry him at a run.
Óin did arrive rather soon, around the same time as the most enormous vat of chicken soup Bilbo had ever seen in his life. He was fairly sure Frodo could have just taken a hot bath in it as soon as had some of it for breakfast. Thorin was pacing in the background, occasionally glaring at the soup as though it couldn't ever hope to be enough and he was going to make damn sure it knew it.
Óin, much to Bilbo's relief, was much more sensible about the matter. "It's a cold all right," he said after examining Frodo. "Nothing to worry about, but then you probably knew that already. We haven't had a flu wave this winter, so no need to fret over that."
"So what can you do?" Thorin still had that same grave expression as though he was expecting to hear his kingdom would fall and his throne be ground to dust.
"Me? Not much, really. I can give him something to ease the fever if it gets very high, but mostly it's best to just let the cold run its course. Make sure he drinks and sleeps, get some food into him if you can, and call for me if he gets much worse."
"But he's sick!" Because apparently Thorin thought Óin had missed that fact. "How can you just do nothing? The poor thing is suffering!"
"He's already asleep, so I doubt there's much suffering going on." Óin snorted. "It's just a slightly worse case of the sniffles, nothing to panic over. I'm sure he'll be right as rain in just a few days."
Thorin, Bilbo noted, did not look at all convinced. There was little he could do about it, though, particularly as Óin left and Bilbo ushered Thorin out of Frodo's room so they could have their own breakfast.
Óin must have mentioned his urgent summons to someone, Bilbo decided, as soon after they started to receive a steady stream of guests. He might have scolded them for distracting Thorin from the paperwork he was supposed to be doing in lieu of his court hours, but really, it wasn't like Thorin would have focused on it anyway. It seemed he couldn't go more than a moment without checking in on Frodo, which really made very little difference as the boy spent most of his time sleeping.
Dwalin was the first one to arrive, having somehow missed the opportunity to drag Óin to the royal apartments yet now more than making up for his negligence by marching in like an entire army. As soon as he was inside he demanded to see Frodo, speaking so loudly and franticly that Bilbo had to shush him lest he wake the poor lad even through the thick oaken door. He didn't calm down much even after he had seen Frodo, though, demanding to know if there was absolutely anything he could do. Bilbo wasn't sure whether to be glad that Thorin and Dwalin could now support each other in their terrible grief and worry or to despair over the fact that they would feed each other's completely needless panic.
Of course, he had not quite had the time to make up his mind on this matter before they were joined by more concerned members of the Company. Fíli and Kíli were the first, demanding to see their little cousin, after which they immediately announced their determination to find some relief to this evil ailment that burdened poor Frodo. Kíli rushed off to find Tauriel, and Bilbo rather dreaded his reaction when Tauriel inevitably informed him that there was little she could do. At this rate, he would probably take it as a sign that Frodo's illness was something grave indeed.
The others were no better. Ori in particular seemed near tears, declaring that this was his fault for taking so long to knit the mittens he had promised Frodo, as it therefore was all thanks to him that poor Frodo had been too cold. Bilbo put an end to such thoughts very quickly. The last thing he needed was Thorin agreeing with such nonsense, and judging by Thorin's ever deepening frowns, he would have been quite ready to agree with just about anything at the moment. The rest of the Company refrained from any direct self-accusations, but did all offer some new toy or sweet or other remedy to hopefully make Frodo feel better. The lad would have been quite spoiled in the span of a single day, Bilbo suspected, if he hadn't spent most of his time safely asleep.
By the time Glóin arrived, Bilbo was just about ready to throw him out on his arse right away. To his surprise, though, Glóin took one look at Thorin pacing next to Frodo's room and Fíli pretending to read the same page for the third hour in a row, then patted Bilbo on the shoulder.
"They'll come around soon enough," he promised. "Well, not really, but it won't last forever, I'm sure. And the lad will be fine, but of course you already knew that."
"At last, someone sensible!" Bilbo cried, throwing up his arms. "It's just a cold, but none of them will listen to me! They all act like it's the plague at the very least," he added, though he did take care to lower his tone a little bit. He did not want Thorin to get any stupid ideas. Well, any more of them.
"It's just to be expected, really. Most of them haven't been around wee ones much, they don't know how often they come down with this or that. Well, Dori does, he pretty much raised Ori after all, but from what I remember Ori was a sickly child and Dori has always been a worrier. Has he been around with an extra blanket yet?" As Bilbo nodded, Glóin hummed in agreement. "Yes, rather as I expected. He did the same thing whenever my Gimli was sick as a wee lad, said it was repayment from all the time Óin spent tending Ori. I never had the heart to stop him, knowing that he often did have cause to worry with his brother."
"But Thorin has been around when his nephews grew up, right?" Bilbo frowned. "Yet he frets most of all. Wouldn't he have learned better by now?"
"Well, see, there's two reasons I can offer for that. One is that the princes were actually pretty hardy as lads, rarely had as much as a case of sniffles. One time Kíli got rather ill, though, before he was even five. It was so bad, my brother wasn't entirely sure he would make it. They took turns sitting by his bedside, Thorin and Dís and her husband, more or less for three weeks straight. So when Thorin thinks of a wee lad being sick, that's probably all he can remember, sitting next to a wee one and hoping he'd make it to the morning."
"Oh." Bilbo swallowed. Suddenly Thorin's constant fretting was cast in a rather different light. "And, ah. What's the other reason?"
"Oh, that's simple." Bilbo could have sworn Glóin's eyes actually twinkled, in a way that rather reminded him of Gandalf. "It's the first time it's his own wee one that's sick. Why, whenever Gimli was ill as a babe, I don't think I slept at all, I was so worried. My darling wife was quite amused at my expense, given that I would even fret when it was quite clear his only woe was teething. She swears to this day I cried more than Gimli did, and Mahal as my witness, I'm not sure I can truly deny it."
"Right." Well, it was good to know it wasn't just Thorin, then. "Is there anything I can do about it?"
"In my experience? Not much. Try and make sure he doesn't disturb the lad's rest too much by checking in on him, but that's more or less it. I know I was quite unconsolable until I was sure Gimli was all better again." Now, Bilbo got another pat on the shoulder. "As for yourself, I'll be back later with some very nice wine Dori recommended to me the other day. I'm sure you could use it."
At that, Bilbo could do very little but offer his profuse thanks.
Glóin was, it turned out, quite correct. Thorin hardly slept the following night, getting up what seemed like every five minutes to check on Frodo. In the end Bilbo told him to simply bring the lad into their bed, a suggestion that Thorin took with great relief. Bilbo rather suspected Thorin would end up getting no sleep at all like this, but at least Bilbo himself might manage to get some rest, and Frodo wouldn't be woken up by someone constantly opening his door, either.
The following couple of days weren't much better. There was slightly less wailing and gnashing of teeth, but the constant visits and little gifts did not cease. Bilbo did get some relief as Thorin could not avoid appearing in court at the appointed hours, Bilbo staying home from his side to keep an eye on Frodo, but afterward Thorin rushed back as soon as he could possibly get away with it, kingly robes and crown and all. Bilbo was quite sure there had never been a more majestic figure sitting on the edge of a bed and staring at such a little child, and for all that he found it somewhat amusing, it also made him feel incredibly warm inside.
Thankfully, Thorin didn't seem at all opposed to cuddling with Bilbo as they watched Frodo sleep.
The fourth morning since Frodo fell ill Bilbo woke up to someone calling his name. The insistent voice broke through his dreams, giving him no choice but to slowly approach the land of the waking.
"Frodo," he murmured, a small part of him managing to feel glad that the boy was apparently feeling better while the rest of him was slowly struggling to reach some reasonable level of consciousness. "Frodo, give me back my covers." It was a very effective way of waking him up, yes, but it also left him quite cold.
"I didn't take them." Frodo's voice was far too bright and cheerful for the hour, albeit slightly confused. "They're right there, Papa Bilbo."
Somewhat to his surprise Bilbo realized that the weight upon him was, in fact, that of the covers and not just his entire body still feeling heavy from sleep. Not that he didn't also feel heavy, mind, and so very cold.
He opened his eyes, just a crack, and saw two pairs of blue eyes watching him intently. Frodo looked as cheerful as he always did, clearly over whatever bug had burdened him, while Thorin was significantly less rested yet smiling as he sat on the bed with Frodo in his lap. The smile, however, disappeared instantly as Bilbo hissed at the hint of light, closing his eyes again.
"Bilbo? Bilbo, are you all right?" There was a hand on his forehead, big and steady and strong, and even before Thorin said anything Bilbo knew exactly what was wrong.
"I think," he said, struggling to bring his voice at least a bit over a murmur, "I think I have a cold."
Well. At least this time, he would hopefully sleep through most of the fretting.